


Bitterly Ever After

by DorkofYork



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End (2007), Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest (2006), Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003)
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Magic, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-09 20:15:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 47
Words: 283,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1996338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DorkofYork/pseuds/DorkofYork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stella Bell was a witch and a bastard, striving for gentility on Tortuga.  James Norrington was an angry drunkard desirous of revenge.  Both were bitter as bile, and certainly never expected to be friends.  Funny ol' world, innit?  Norrington/OC</p>
<p>Cross-posted from ff.net.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stella Morae

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first-ever fic, written back when I was... a lot younger. I'm still pretty fond of it, so I'm cross posting it here for posterity, with author's notes and all. Hopefully people can still read and enjoy it, however old. ;)
> 
> Here was the original A/N, back in 2006:
> 
>  
> 
> _Disclaimer: I don't own Pirates of the Caribbean, or any of the characters therein. All I've got is Stella. This should be obvious, of course, to anyone with sense; doesn't "fanfiction" automatically imply that we, the fanficcers, do not own the park in which we play?_
> 
>  
> 
> _A/N: This will eventually have spoilers for pretty much everything—DMC and AWE (but AWE spoilers will not enter into things until around chapter 16-ish). Of course, one would think that reading PotC fanfic would imply a measure of familiarity with the movies, but... meh. Ficcers, ye be warned, and all that._
> 
>  
> 
> _Also, there's a female OC in here. I know this. Now you know this. I'm going to be trying my darndest not to make Stella into a Mary-Sue (incidentally, my boss's name is Mary-Sue. I find that amusing); I took a litmus test and everything, and thus far she passes._
> 
>  
> 
> _Also also, this will eventually be Norrington/OC. This is because I love Norrington best. I adored him in the first movie (prim-and-proper, but oh-so-snarky) and I seriously loved him in the second (scruffy, delishus, and very, very snarky). I dig the Norrington (and his snark)._
> 
>  
> 
> _Anyway, if you see any inaccuracies, feel free to let me know. 18th century history is not my forte, nor do I know the PotC fandom like the back of my hand. If there's something wrong... well, whups._
> 
>  
> 
> _Now, to the story. (I talk too much. Sorry)._

****

* * *

 

**Prologue: Stella Morae**

Stella Bell was a witch and a bastard, and she knew it. When people called her a bastard, or a witch, it didn't bother her too terribly much—she was a bastard, and she was a witch. No sense getting vexed about the truth, her mother had always said.

So whenever some resentful person flung those epithets at her, Stella would smile... and then fling back a retort carefully crafted to drive the proverbial knife into whomever it was calling her names. Depending on the circumstances and her mood at the time, she might even fling a hex as well. Though "witch" and "bastard" didn’t bother her as far as name-calling went, she didn’t want to let people think they could get away with insulting her.

She was the latest in a long line of bastard witches, so she'd had her whole life to get accustomed to the idea and learn how to let the insults slide. Her mother, Eleanor Abernathy, was born out of wedlock, as was her grandmother, Esmerelda Laroche, and her great-grandmother, Isabella García Rodriguez. Isabella’s half-gypsy mother, Mirela (also illegitimate), had been the first to set out to the Caribbean after nearly being burned as a witch and a heretic by the Inquisition in Spain. But she escaped, and came to the Caribbean, and there her descendants remained.

In the proceeding generations, the line of Mirela o Washosko García began to grow in knowledge and power. Her daughter, Isabella started a grimoire that was augmented by charms, spells, potions, and remedies from all manner of witches, voodoo priestesses, and even some genuine doctors and midwives. This cache of knowledge passed down from daughter to daughter, each adding to the book. The book was what mattered—the book and the magic. These would get them respect in a world that scorned them as disrespectable. These would help them survive.

The men in their lives, after all, certainly wouldn’t help. Either Mirela's descendants had horrible taste in men, or there was some credence to the rumours of a curse. Whatever it was, Mirela, Isabella, Esmerelda, and Eleanor gave their lives, their hearts, and their bodies to men who gave them very little in return. Mirela, Isabella, Esmerelda, and Eleanor all eventually found themselves alone, relying on their wits and their powers and the history behind them to endure in a world that would all too easily see them crushed under the relentless march of the respectable and the rational and their thrice-cursed standards.

But they endured. Sometimes they even managed to thrive.

Stella Bell, however, was pretty sure she was not thriving.

Perhaps her ancestors had stored up a reserve of anger and bitterness at the world and Stella was the lucky recipient. Perhaps the stain and consequences of witchcraft and bastardy were catching up to them, and Stella was the one who tripped when fleeing. Perhaps her standards were just a smidgen too high. Or perhaps she was just naturally a sour, shrewish, dissatisfied little bitch. Whatever it was, Stella really did not understand how anyone who lived there on a permanent basis could possibly thrive in a place like Tortuga. And she had dwelt in Tortuga for the better part of nine years.

As each year passed, she grew to loathe the place just a little bit more. Loathed the mud that was equal parts dirt, water, spilled liquor, and other substances she didn’t care to think on. Loathed the stench of rum, and sweat, and too many unwashed people. Loathed the dull roar of drunken voices, shattering glass, splintered wood. Loathed the barbarity and anarchy that didn’t even take the trouble to hide itself.

As each year passed, it grew just a little bit more difficult to take solace in those things about Tortuga she did like. Grew just a bit bitterer to remind herself that she had nowhere else to go, and had to stay out of necessity. Grew just slightly harsher to be completely alone, save for when those few she could tolerate gracefully came to visit.

But she stayed. Stella stayed on that island, and waited. Waited, and listened to the faint promises of a better life that came on the wind and through the water. A better life was coming, if she would be patient and wait for it to arrive. If the spider would just wait on her web a little bit longer, soon the winds of fate would bring her a tasty fly.

So Stella held fast to that promise, and waited.


	2. Stella Salutationis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jack Sparrow and Will Turner pay a visit to a witch.

**Chapter 1: Stella Salutationis**

* * *

 Though her foresight wasn’t as strong as some, Stella could still feel the anticipation quivering in the air. Change was coming; change for enough Important people that the indescribable _something_ that wafted around her head was nearly vibrating with expectation, sharpening  all her senses, mystical or not.

Thus, she wasn’t surprised when a knock sounded on her door. Nor was she surprised when she opened the door to reveal a familiar face.

What surprised her was the unfamiliar face, and what his presence portended.

* * *

 "Take what you can!"

"Give nothing back!"

With that, the two men toasted, bashing their tankards together and then drinking deep. They did this several times.

Finally, one of them stood purposefully. He raised his be-ringed left hand and settled a worn brown tri-corn hat onto his head. The flickering yellow light of the tavern danced across his handsome face and glinted against the trinkets woven into his dark hair.

The dramatic value of this whole pose was ruined by the slight sway in his posture.

"And now, to business!" he announced firmly, slamming the now-empty tankard down onto the rickety table.

His drinking partner—and older, stockier man with greying mutton-chops—gave a firm nod that wavered only slightly, and they both staggered out of the alcove they'd been drinking in.

"Whelp!" called the first man, beckoning to a slender young man standing awkwardly against the wall. "I've an errand to be running on the edges of town. Come along... unless you fancy staying here with the lovely company." This latter declaration was turned with a decided air of mockery, given the young man's stiff posture and the obvious way he was trying not to touch anyone else in the room.

Confident his companion would follow when he left, he turned his attention, slightly inebriated though it was, onto the man with the mutton-chops. "Gibbs, assemble the crew on the west docks by midday tomorrow, and we'll all off to fetch back my ship."

"Aye, Cap'n Sparrow," Gibbs said stoutly, and made his meandering, slightly-drunken way out of the tavern.

"Come along, whelp," Jack Sparrow commanded, as he sashayed confidently out into the streets, neatly ducking drunks and whores alike (though he took the time to leer cheerfully at the latter).

"I have a name, you know," Will Turner pointed out unhappily.

Jack Sparrow ignored that, and made a reasonably straight beeline out of the town.

"Where are we going?" Will finally thought to ask as they left the lanterns behind and ventured onto a narrow path, beginning to be overgrown with vines and palm fronds. The waning moon cast ghostly blue shadows onto the landscape, and the raucous sounds of the port nightlife became a little less grating as the quiet of the jungle night became more prominent. Will breathed a sigh of relief, glad to be out of cluster of buildings, full of stench and sound and people who got far too close. Even if it was slightly creepy out here, at least there were no whores rubbing up against him, no liquor being spilled on his boots, and no punches being thrown at his head.

The eeriness, however, increased substantially when Jack replied nonchalantly, "The graveyard."

Will nearly stopped dead; it seemed his relief to be out of the town was a little premature. "The graveyard?" he repeated incredulously. "What possible need could you have to visit a graveyard at this time of night?"

"Need to have a word with to Black Stella."

"Black Stellaaaaahhhhgggh!"  The unfortunate addition to Stella's name was the consequence of Will Turner walking into the edge of a spider's web, which sent the massive spider sitting on the web careening towards his face. Will quickly skittered to the other side of the path as the spider vanished into the darkness of the trees. As his heartbeat slowed, Will hurried to catch up with Jack, who had continued his progress down the overgrown path, heedless of all else. "Who's Black Stella, and why on earth does she live in a graveyard?"

"Black Stella happens to be a witch, and she lives in a graveyard because she's a witch, and witches love to make their homes in places that send shivers up the spines of them who come to seek their witchy services," Jack replied cheerfully, neatly dodging overhanging branches and spider webs alike.

Will nearly stopped dead in his tracks. "We're going to see a witch?"

"Aye!"

"What for?" Will demanded incredulously, picking up his pace as Jack continued on and left him alone in the dark.

Jack glanced over his shoulder at his younger companion, who was scampering after him. "Are you always this... chatty... when you're nervous?"

Will scowled at him. "I've just been told I'm being taken to see a witch who lives in a graveyard after 'commandeering' a ship from the British navy to save Elizabeth who has been kidnapped by cursed pirates. Please forgive me if I'm a little off-centre," he snapped back. The sarcasm absolutely dripped from his words; if he'd had a bucket, he probably could've collected it.

A smoky chuckle was the reply, followed by, "Good. Stella likes 'em scared."

Not sure how to respond to that, Will fell silent. As they went deeper into the jungle, the sounds of the town faded into the night. The babble of shouts and song were replaced with the rustle of plants and the calls of birds. The only illumination was the sharp, pale light of the moon. Will skittered along behind Jack, hovering even closer to the pirate captain as they emerged from the path into a clearing littered with headstones.

Jack didn't even pause, and continued his slightly weaving trajectory across the graveyard, seemingly unfazed about the fact that he was, in fact, trodding on the final resting ground of at least a hundred Tortugans. Will hesitated. Then the roar of some nocturnal animal echoed through the jungle, and he quickly rushed to join Jack.

Soon a sliver of yellow light became visible on the other side of the burial ground, between wide, serrated leaves and around the slender trunks of trees. As Will and Jack got closer, the light resolved itself into a square, and Will could see the faint outline of a small, squat house, lurking near the edge of the graveyard.

About five metres from the house, on the very fringe of the cemetery, Jack abruptly stopped. Will, not anticipating this, careened into the back of the pirate, and then staggered back into a tombstone, which he immediately cringed away from.

"Now, there are few guidelines one should always follow when visiting Black Stella," the pirate began, whirling to face Will, who was compulsively brushing moss and cobwebs off his back. "First of all, mind your manners. No touching her, no belching in her face, no boots on her table, no spilling rum on her floor, no filching her little trinkets..."

As the list went on, Will wondered how much of this was for him, and how much was a review for Jack's own benefit.

"Secondly," Sparrow continued, once he'd finished an extensive list of things he was not to do in Stella's house, "do not call Black Stella a witch, or mention her witchery, or insinuate that what she might happen to be practising could maybe possibly be classified as witchcraft. Nor are you to call attention to her illegitimate origins, hint that she is anything less than virgin-pure, proposition her, or say she's ugly. In fact, just tell her what you need, pay her, and leave." Jack winced. "Always pay her."

There was a rueful note of remembered pain in that last bit, and Will quirked a curious eyebrow. "What happens if you don't pay her?"

Jack leaned closer, weaving in and out of Will's personal space. The pale moonlight illuminated his tanned, unwashed features and cast stark shadows on his face. The amber glow spilling out of the house in the trees filtered through the leaves, threw slashes of light onto the left side of Jack's face, glinted on the charms in his hair, and reflected in his dark eyes. Like two smouldering coals in the dark, Jack's eyes burned into Will's as he lowered his voice and said, very seriously, "If you do not provide payment to Black Stella, she'll curse your very bollocks off."

Some scepticism must have showed on Will's face, for Jack's eyes got even wider, and he leaned in even closer, bringing with him a... unique... fragrance of salt, sweat, unwashed man, and rum. "I speak the truth, my young friend. The hexes of that viper-woman could put the fear of God into the Devil himself," he whispered. "Now, a moment of silence for Ned Murphy's bollocks." And he removed his hat and placed it over his heart.

Will wasn't sure if he believed the pirate, especially when, after a moment of still silence, Jack set his hat firmly back on his head, whirled around, beads and hair flying behind him, and continued his drunken swagger towards the house, stepping carelessly over the low stone wall of the graveyard. The moment of solemnity had passed like an afternoon thunderstorm, leaving little memory behind.

Nevertheless, he had heard actual fear in Sparrow's voice—fear from a man who could face Norrington's navy, the hangman's noose, and upset women without batting an eye. Yet Jack Sparrow seemed to be afraid of this Black Stella.

It was something to ponder, Will decided, hurrying to catch up with Jack as he approached the house.

He slowed to a halt behind the pirate as Jack knocked twice upon the knotty wooden door, and hung back, peering around Jack's shoulders as the door swung open.

Will was expecting to see something that matched the description of evil witches from childhood fairy-tales. He was expecting a bent old crone, wrinkled and deformed, perhaps with a wart on her hooked nose and a black cat twining around her feet. He was expecting coarse, tangled grey hair and eyes that would gleam with malice and magic, all garbed in rough black cloth. Maybe the skull of a small animal hanging around her neck and a knobbly wooden staff.

He was sorely disappointed.

The person who opened the door was a slender girl. Between the pale moonlight and the light of the candles inside the house, the girl was cast mostly in shadow, rendering it difficult to make out her appearance. From what he could tell, she was not much older than he was, and several hand-spans shorter. There were no obvious defects about her; no warts, no wrinkles, no hooked nose. She wasn't even wearing black—her gown was a faded greenish-yellow—and instead of animal bones around her neck, there was a string of tiny silver bells.

As a matter of fact, there was very little black about Black Stella. All Will could see was her long, sleek hair, darker than the ebony he'd once seen a Port Royal merchant bring from Africa.

Stella smiled. Will could see her lips curl upwards in the reflection of the cold moonbeams that shone down on her dress. "Good evening, Mr. Sparrow."

Will was surprised to see Jack remove his hat and deliver an approximation of a courtly bow. He was not, however, surprised when Jack returned, "That’s Captain Sparrow, love," with a smirk on his lips that Will could just hear.

Stella permitted a dry chuckle to pass her lips, and then she turned her face toward Will. Something about him must have startled or surprised her, since the younger Turner was fairly sure he didn't imagine the quick intake of breath on Stella's part. Then she stepped forward into the moonlight, turning her face upward to look him in the eye. "And who is this?" she breathed, nearly purring.

Suddenly, Will wasn't so disappointed.

The only things blacker than Stella's hair were her piercing black eyes, and they did indeed glimmer with something that made Will feel shivery and chilled. The moonbeams painted her in a strange, ghostly palette; her black hair and eyes seemed to swallow the light, whereas her white skin seemed to glow. Seeing her thusly, with her eyes devouring him and an eager, hungry smile playing around her thin lips, Will could easily believe this was a woman who would curse away the testicles any man who vexed her.

Recalling Jack's earlier admonition to be polite, Will fumbled for his manners, but realised that he had no idea how to address the woman in front of him. He couldn't very well reply, " _My name is William Turner, and it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Black Stella_."

The corners of Stella's lips quirked. "Bell," she said.

Will was confused, and looked over to Jack for assistance. The pirate just shrugged. He turned back to Stella. "I beg your pardon?"

"Bell. My surname is Bell."

Had she read his mind? Or was she just amazingly perceptive? "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Bell. I am called William Turner, if it please you," he replied, falling back on etiquette.

Stella's dark eyes narrowed slightly. "Bill's son," she murmured, casting her eyes over to Jack, who nodded. That faint smile made a reappearance, and Will felt goosebumps raise on his arms. Something about that smile bothered him.

"I had wondered what a man such you would be doing with a man such as Jack Sparrow," Stella remarked, returning her gaze to Will and ignoring Jack's sulky protest of, "Captain Jack Sparrow." Then she nodded once, and stepped back, beckoning Jack and Will inside.

The interior of Stella's house was tidy, illuminated by a fire in a low fireplace and what must have been a hundred candles. The walls were lined with mouldering books; bunches of herbs and hanks of knotted yarn hung from the ceiling. There was a rickety table in the centre of the room with three chairs around it and an earthenware pitcher on top.

"Please, sit," Stella bid coolly, shutting the door behind them.

Jack sat down in one of the chairs, looking vaguely uncomfortable. Will followed suit. A tense silence descended, the only sounds the crackle of the wood in the fire and the soft swish of Stella's skirts.

Three cups were placed on the table, and Stella quietly poured what turned out to be cool water steeped with herbs Will didn't recognise into them, before seating herself primly in remaining chair fixing her eyes on him. Another humourless smile lurked in the corners of her mouth. "What brings you to my humble abode?"

"I need a wind," Jack replied swiftly, taking a swig of the water and setting the cup gingerly back on the table. "A strong wind. Tomorrow, when the tide comes in, for as long as you can turn it my way."

"What direction?" Stella inquired, still keeping her gaze pinned on Will, who was trying heartily not to fidget.

"Sort of south-west," Jack replied, after a quick peek at the compass in his pocket. Will didn't know what he was checking that for—the compass didn't work.

"To what purpose?"

"I'm going after her."

Stella finally stopped staring at Will, and turned her disconcerting gaze to Jack. He matched her, black on black. After a moment, the witch smiled. "You might even succeed this time."

"Good to have your vote of confidence," Jack said, grinning obliviously.

"However, there's a storm brewing down in that direction, which always interrupts the winds I call and may render useless whatever you get from me once you encounter it," the witch added coolly. "I can manoeuvre it to your benefit, but that is always difficult and rather exhausting. And it will cost extra, of course."

Jack said nothing, and reached into one the pouch at his side to remove a small leather bag. He tossed it onto the table with a careless flick of his wrist. It landed with a heavy thud and a faint jingling sound—a tell-tale sign of money.

Stella's black eyes didn't move from Jack's face, but her spidery white hand reached out and curled around the pouch, drawing it towards her and secreting it somewhere in the fullness of her washed-out skirts. That humourless almost-smile flickered across her face. "You will have your wind tomorrow, Captain Jack Sparrow, and I will turn the storm in your favour," she promised.

"Much appreciated, love," Jack purred.

The rest of the visit passed fairly quickly. As Will and Jack sipped their water, Stella stood and drew several strands of yarn from hank by the southern window, and another few from the west. All of them, Will noted, had a loose knot in the centre. She gave those knotted strings to Jack, who tucked them carefully into the pouch at his hip. Then they bid each other a simple farewell, and the men found themselves tramping across the graveyard again.

Will, who had been restraining his curiosity throughout the visit since he figured it would be impolite to gossip about the host when she was still in the room, started pelting Jack with questions.

"Did she know my father?"

The pirate snorted. "I doubt it."

"How did she know about him, then?" Will demanded.

Jack shrugged, neatly sidestepping a crumbling headstone. "Probably she pulled it out of me skull."

"She can do that?" Will asked warily, wondering if that was the reason Stella's eyes had disquieted him so.

"She's a witch," Jack replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Will, sensing he wasn't going to get much more on that subject (probably because Jack himself didn't know), changed topics. "What are those strings she gave you?"

"These, young William, be the winds I asked for," Jack replied, sounding smug as he patted the pouch containing the yarn bits. At Will's uncomprehending look, the pirate elaborated. "Black Stella catches winds like other lasses catch butterflies, savvy? Snatches 'em right out of the sky," and Jack mimed, waving his hands enthusiastically around his head. "Then she puts those winds into these little bits of yarn and ties a little knot to keep 'em in. And when a sailor, such as myself, has a need to sail somewhere in a bit of hurry, he might go to her and request, for a fee, that she give him a little bit of string with a little wind inside, which said sailor will untie at his leisure to release the wind into his sails and send him sailing speedily off where he needs to go."

Will glanced down at the pouch containing the yarn with new respect, then back at Jack. "And it always works?"

"I wouldn't pay for it if it didn't, mate," Jack laughed, flashing a quick smile that caused the moonlight to glint off his gold teeth, before starting to meander down the narrow path that would lead them back to the streets of Tortuga.

"How much did you pay her, anyway?" Will queried as something occurred to him.

"Enough that she's willing to move a storm for me," Jack replied dismissively.

"She must like you."

"Black Stella doesn't like anyone."

Will could easily believe that—he'd never been so disquieted by anyone before. Well, maybe Elizabeth, but that was a different kind of disquiet. That was the kind of disquiet that made him feel like he could do almost anything, made his insides quiver and his hands sweat and his knees tremble. It was the kind of disquiet he would willingly—nay, gleefully—endure for the rest of his life. The discomfort that came from Black Stella made him feel like he was sitting in a bucket of snakes and about to vomit. If he ever felt that sensation again, it would be too soon. He'd never been so glad to leave a place before—not even that tavern in the port.

In fact, Will wondered if he might not have been better off staying there, rowdy crowd notwithstanding.

Then he shrugged. Jack had what he needed to speed them across the sea to wherever Elizabeth was, no one had been hexed, and as far as Will Turner was concerned, he need never again see the strange woman whose smiles never touched her glittering black eyes.

* * *

 "That was a fairly successful transaction," Stella remarked aloud, removing the pouch containing her payment from the hidden pocket in her skirts.

She tugged the strings open and allowed the contents of the bag to spill into her hand. The gold glinted in the firelight, dancing across the seal of the British Crown. Allowing herself a smoky chuckle as she realised where this gold had originated, Stella marvelled at Jack Sparrow's audacity. Paying a Tortugan witch with gold stolen from the British navy—specifically, from the H.M.S. _Dauntless_ —was bold as brass, and typical Sparrow.

"And he didn't even put his boots on my table," she added, moving to secrete the gold into the inconspicuous—but very secure—chest sitting in the dark north corner of the room. "It seems he can be trained after all."

But Sparrow was not the one who occupied her mind as she doused the candles. It was Sparrow's companion, Will Turner—the handsome, lovesick, polite and good-hearted young man with hair and eyes nearly as dark as her own.

Oh, that handsome one was Important. As Tia Dalma, Stella's compatriot (of a sort), would remark later, William Turner had a touch of destiny about him, and that was glaringly apparent to anyone with the means to sense it. Stella Bell possessed those means, as did her foremothers, and the presence of the younger Turner had sent a richness into the air that was tantalising and intimidating at the same time.

"I should speak with her," she told herself, dousing the last candle. "After I recover from dealing with Sparrow's storm, I must speak with Tia Dalma."

That resolved, Stella started banking the fire for the night, mentally preparing herself for tomorrow's undertaking. Admittedly, she did indulge herself in the memory of William Turner's discomfort, chuckling as she recalled the way the young man shied away from her gaze, his discomfort, and his obvious relief at his departure. It was, after all, only fair. If his presence was intimidating in its promise, it was only fair that Stella intimidate him with the reality of her presence in return.

"I expect you will be quite something to behold when your promise is fulfilled," she announced suddenly, as though the young Turner was there to be addressed. Glancing out the window which looked over the graveyard and the path to the port, she smiled as one of her rare premonitions made itself known. "I greatly look forward to seeing that day, for we will meet again, William Turner," she whispered. "In the fullness of time, we will meet again."


	3. Stella Alloquentis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stella Bell takes counsel with a voodoo priestess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From 2006: _A/N: Here we enter into some waters which are touched by DMC (i.e. there's a wee bit of spoilers here) so if you haven't seen it... well, now you know, oui?_
> 
> _I figure Tia Dalma lives on Haiti, also known as Saint-Domingue, so that's what I'm going off of. If you catch any inconsistencies, please let me know. And I do hope I got her accent right._
> 
> _Now I'll stop talking._

The storm had been turned, her winds released, and the price paid.  If Sparrow hadn't caught up with his wayward ship by now, there was nothing else she could do.  It was far beyond her power at this point, and she was in no condition to be doing anything anyway.

Stella always suffered backlash when she altered the storms.  It was like something she'd read about once in a book of physics by Sir Isaac Newton, about every action having an equal and opposite reaction.  When she exerted her will to change the direction of the storm, the storm exerted an equal amount of force on her.

It wasn't an exact analogy, but it was the best she'd been able to come up with after changing the course of a hurricane heading for her childhood home and then dealing with her hysterical mother, terrified after her daughter had spent four days hovering near death.  Stella had never been motivated to find a better comparison; she just knew that when she bent large storms to her will, she paid for it.

The storm she'd manoeuvred for Sparrow, though, was small, and only laid her low for a day-and-a-half.  By noon the next day she was able to get out of bed without feeling as though her head was about to explode.  She went gingerly, though, collecting from her garden the ingredients she would need to help her send her voice to Tia.

A direct conversation was always the easiest (and sometimes the only) way to deal with the voodoo priestess—not the least because Tia couldn't read or write very well, which ruled out an exchange of letters, and because she never left her swampy bower, and because even if Stella could find passage to Tia's island, it would be difficult to find passage back.  Stella had tried once, and after being stranded in Tia's treetop house for three months, she wasn’t eager to try again.

Though Tia Dalma had become one of the only other witches Stella knew after the death of her mother, and was the most important person in Stella's life for that same reason, the fact remained that two women who could see each others' souls stuck in the same small space for an extended amount of time became very uncomfortable with each other very quickly.  She loved Tia Dalma, as much as she could love anyone, but she sure as hell didn't want to live with her.  Tia felt the exact same.

But Stella did need to talk with her.  She knew, theoretically, how Tia's methods worked and could occasionally use them herself.  But the fact remained that the Creole had a much stronger premonitory gift and was much more accurate besides.  If Stella wanted precise, detailed information about the changes percolating in the air, she needed Tia.  Tia would know.  She always knew.

The next day, very early in the morning when the sky was turning light, Stella gathered the needed supplies—the herbs, oils, and powders, as well as a stick of chalk, a bowl, a feather, and a spoon—and placed them in a basket.  Then she set out, moving westward through the jungle and heading for the base of the mountains.  She reached the location about mid-morning—a flat plateau of rock, jutting out over the trees.  Stella called it the Table.

When she arrived, she sat down on the edge and ate a hunk of bread and a slice of melon, letting her legs dangle out into the air.  Faint breezes plucked at her worn yellow skirts as she let her gaze rest on the edge of the island and out over the blue ocean.   The sun sparkled off the water, and Stella fancied she could see other islands off in the distance as she finished her lunch.

Then she took out the contents of her basket and began.

First, she removed the bowl and began to mix things together.  She'd done this so many times she didn't even need to check the recipe.  Powdered insect wings, crushed bone of bird, pounded quartz and pulverised aquamarine, finely chopped bay leaves, and palm oil went in, stirred with a wooden spoon.  The result was a thick greyish paste.

Next came the drawing.  Stella took the chalk and knelt, facing north, before beginning to mark the designs on the rock.   The markings were first drawn as far from her as her arms could reach, but then they spiralled inward; symbols and runes flowered on the stone in a circular pattern around her.

When the necessary shape was completed, Stella picked up the bowl of paste and a blue parrot feather.  Coating the feather with the goop, she went over the chalk lines with a thick coating, careful not to smudge anything.  Then she uncorked a bottle of moonstone she'd crushed to a fine powder several weeks before, and scattered it over the entire design.

Finally, she removed the bundle of herbs and sat down in the centre of her design.  She and her foremothers did not need steel and flint to strike a spark; Stella simply pointed at the dried plants and _willed_ , and they burst into flame.  As the herbs burned, they released a cloud of aromatic smoke, which remained solely in the circle Stella had drawn. It was as though a glass bowl had been overturned on top of her.

With the smoke curling into her lungs and the magic buzzing around her, Stella began the familiar chant, calling upon wind and stone to carry her voice across the sea to Tia Dalma.  Her words echoed at first, signifying that no one had yet heard her.  But soon the echo began to fade from her voice.  The smoke thickened around her as Stella closed her eyes and brought forth her memories of the location her words were going, speeding its passage across the clear blue water.

Tia Dalma lived in a swampy lagoon on the coast of Saint-Domingue, south of Tortuga.  To get to her home, one needed to follow the river upstream, ducking overhanging plants and water snakes, and always silently observed by the inhabitants.  Eventually the narrow stream opened up into a still pool, and the visitor could see the house through the mist.

Dalma's house stood on stilts above the murky water, embraced by the thin fingers of the trees.  It had a thatched roof and a beaded curtain hanging over the door, which the visitor would approach after disembarking at the dock and climbing the rickety stairs.

The inside was somewhat cluttered; full of the things Tia had collected over the years.  Some things were payment for her services; others she inherited or gathered herself.  All were valuable, in one way or another.

And in the centre of all these valuables was the woman herself.  Tia Dalma.

The last time Stella saw her, she'd been sitting at her table like a queen on her throne.  The firelight glinted off the gold and glass scattered around the room and gave Tia's smooth, dark skin a polished glow.  She'd had some wooden beads and golden trinkets woven through her dishevelled dreadlocks.  Her eyes were, as always, dark and knowing.  Her exotic face was painted with African tribal designs, and a grin danced about her full lips as she bid Stella "adieu".

Stella focussed on the memory and concentrated, telling the magic that this was who she wanted to hear her, this was the woman for whom her message was meant, this was the person to whom it needed to bring her voice.

Then, she spoke.

* * *

 

Tia Dalma had been expecting it for days.  She'd made sure to remain close to her stilted house, waiting for the wind to carry the familiar voice to her ears.  So when the soft, "Tia Dalma?" wafted through her door on the breeze, rustling the curtains on her door and stirring her loose brown dreadlocks, she was ready with a, " _Bonjou_ , Stella Bell."

Stella didn't bother with pleasantries—Tia had no use for them—and delivered her opening right away. "I had an interesting visit not three days past.  Jack Sparrow came to see me."

Almost involuntarily, a smile spread across Tia's smooth, painted face.  "Ah?  'ow is he?" she inquired.

"He's going after the Black Pearl.  Our Captain Sparrow seems to have found some kind of leverage on Barbossa—a handsome fellow named William Turner, and the son of one of the Pearl's late crewmembers.  A most... significant... young man," the crisp voice informed her.

Though Stella's face was not visible, Tia could easily imagine the meaningful eyebrow raise that would have accompanied this statement.

"In order to break de curse, Barbossa be needin' every piece of dat cursed gold and a de blood of every man who took it," Tia Dalma replied, addressing the unasked question.  "But Bootstrap Bill, he regret de mutiny 'gainst Sparrow, and sent a piece of dat gold to his son... before Barbossa tie him to a cannon and throw him overboard."

"Loosing both the gold and the necessary blood in the process."

" _Wi_.  Now there is but one gold piece Barbossa be lacking, and but one source for de blood of Bootstrap Bill."

"His only child, William," murmured the voice on the wind.  "Does Barbossa know?"

"Him t'inks he knows, but what him knows is wrong," Tia chuckled.  She'd realised what was going to happen a few weeks ago, collecting dreams and readings and what was known about the characters of those involved into a coherent picture.  And then she'd laughed.  The quest for the Black Pearl was the start of an even greater adventure—one that would eventually reach out to touch both Stella Bell and herself.

The wind wound around Tia's hut, rattling the bottles and feathers and bits of juju hung on the ceiling.  If she squinted her eyes just so and concentrated, Tia could almost make out the faint outline of a woman wafted aloft on the breeze, reaching her arms out to touch that which interested her.

"Jack does indeed have a significant piece of leverage," Stella commented, sounding amused.

"And it will win him back de Black Pearl," Tia finished, supplying the other witch with the piece of information Tia guessed she truly wanted to know.

"How fortuitous... for him."

"We will both 'ave future dealings with William Turner," Tia said slowly, as if to taste the name.  "Until den, I cannot tell you more of 'im."

Then Tia Dalma grinned, displaying blackened teeth to the empty room, and waited.  She didn't have to wait long.  It still amused her that even after all this time she and Stella could merely hint at a question and the other would immediately understand and answer.

"He is a good man—perhaps tediously so," Stella's voice commented offhandedly.  "Still young, with stars in his eyes.  In love."

At those last two words, Tia's ears perked.  "In love?" she repeated, before emitting a smoky chuckle.  "Dat makes t'ings very... interestin'."

"Indeed it does," purred the voice on the wind.  "But he has her on a pedestal—had his father there too, before being told what old Bootstrap really was.  I wonder if he won't be disillusioned with his lovely lady before it's all over.  Might make for an uncomfortable awakening once he does, indeed, awaken."

Stella was always meticulously careful about the words she chose; if she spoke a word that had undertones, Tia knew the other witch meant for those undertones to be there, and be understood.  So when the word "awakening" and all its mystical connotations breezed into her ears, she immediately knew that there was something special about William Turner that went beyond his significance to Jack Sparrow.  "Ah..." breathed Tia.  "An awakenin'."

"Oh yes... the lad has promise—though that is all I can sense.  I do not have your gift for knowing details about the potential I see in people."

Tia didn't dignify that with a response, and instead glided to her table and gathered her oracle bones together.  She took a deep breath and concentrated for a moment; then, with a flick of her slim wrists, she cast the bones down.  The Stella-wind rustled through her hair as she leaned forward to read the casting.

A slight furrow creased Tia's smooth, bronze brow.  "We all be linked toge'ter," she murmured, passing a slender hand over the table.  "All around Jack Sparrow."

"Sparrow?" Stella repeated incredulously.

"He be the de one we all turn around," Tia confirmed, still gazing contemplatively on the bones.  "What he do touch all de rest of us."

There was a slight pause.  Then:

"I'm not entirely certain how pleased am I to hear that my life and its direction is affected by the actions of... Jack Sparrow.  Why Jack Sparrow?" the breeze asked scornfully.

Tia Dalma just smiled and replied with one word: "Fate."

The wind whirled off around Tia's house.  The bottles hung from the ceiling swung madly and the beads in the doorway rattled like a summer downpour.  Then the air swirled back to Tia; alternatively plastering the cloth to her legs and wafting it around her ankles, and making her hair lash her shoulders and arms.

She waited passively through Stella's show of temper. Eventually the whirlwind subsided, and the breeze became gentle again.  "Do you ever feel that 'fate' is overused as an explanation for these things?" the voice inquired, a hint of poisonous sweetness in her dark tones.

"I can't help de truth, Stella," Tia said evenly, standing from her table and sweeping the bones into their pouch.

"Truth?  Not so much truth as convenience.  It seems to be when there's no good explanation it's automatically fate," the woman on the wind said acrimoniously.  "Why Sparrow?  Oh, must be fate.  Why did a drunken sailor eat the cat?  Oh, must be fate.  Why the... Black Plague?  Oh, must be fate.  And why is Miss Stella Bell still cooling her heels on Tortuga after nine years, even after being assured her stay on this miserable island would only be temporary?  Oh, MUST BE FATE!"

Tia sighed faintly, and raised an eyebrow.  "'Tis temporary."

"After nine years?!"

"Dat's not so long."

There was another pause.  If Tia didn't know Stella as well as she did, she wouldn't have noted the soft whisper on the breeze; as it was, Tia could easily place it as an exasperated sigh.

"If you are going to be so very much older than I am, you could at least do me the courtesy of looking it," Stella drawled, voice as sour as lemons.  The breeze wound, catlike, around Tia's body. "Failing that, of course, you could kindly keep in mind that the rest of us do measure time somewhat... more rapidly.  Nine years may be a pittance to you, but it's quite a while for the rest of us.  I'm twenty-three years old, Tia Dalma, and I am running out of time."

"And patience, _wi_ ," Tia replied, grinning at her empty house.

"Oh no, I ran out of patience ages ago," Stella snarled.

"Den find more," Tia advised.  "You won' need it for too much longer, but find more."

"You said that three years ago, Tia."

"Dat was before Jack Sparrow entered de picture."

"Jack bloody Sparrow," Stella muttered.  "I do not feel very confident knowing that my future off Tortuga depends on that... that... pirate."

"I didn' say your way off de island depends on him," Tia said archly.

Silence descended on the room.

"Then thank heaven for small favours," Stella said eventually, a twist of macabre humour in her voice.  "Otherwise I'd be on Tortuga until I was dead, and Sparrow would be carting my coffin off to Antigua.  That is the only way he would consent to bearing me off this island.  He's far too afraid that I'll curse him into a eunuch."

Tia started laughing.  An admirer had once compared her laugh to bronze bells, and her laughter was indeed full and rich, like a thick spice cake or good rum.  Perhaps that was one of the reasons Sparrow liked her so much.  Of course, he would not have felt so amiable if he knew how much amusement she was finding in the prospect of his castration at the spells of Stella Bell.

" _Wi_ , 'e be findin' dat a fate worse dan death," Tia chuckled.  "When will you be givin' me dat spell?" she inquired playfully.

"Can you get anything more... accurate... on the method and date of my departure from Tortuga?" Stella inquired swiftly.

Stella Bell: so changeable in some ways, and so utterly predictable in others.  Tia stifled a sigh.  "I try."

She made tea, and read the leaves.  She cast the oracle bones again.  She read the cracks of a tortoise shell.  Her tattered tarot cards were arranged and examined.  All the readings agreed; there was some actual information to bestow.  "De next t'ree years be your last on Tortuga," Tia predicted.  "A lost man come to take you away.  You will know de man when you see 'im."

"I will know him in the sense that I will have met him before, or I will know him?"

"You will know him, Stella Bell, when you see him for de first time," Tia Dalma promised.  Then she grinned.  "Now, de spell."

"I'm trying to imagine you using this spell, and I'm afraid I can't picture it," Stella commented.  "So if you do end up making use of it, you really must tell me all about it later."

"Den I'm sure you be hearin' bout it from Sparrow de next time he come to see you," Tia said, perfectly straight-faced.

There was a pause—the sort of pause in which people are thinking, 'did she just say that?'  Then, after a moment, Stella started laughing.  The wind twirled playfully around the hut as she cackled merrily.

If Tia Dalma's laugh was rum and spice, then Stella Bell's was black coffee, or the darkest of chocolates.  It was bitter and dark and harsh even in the throes of mirth.

"Oh, you wouldn't!" Stella snickered, jollity winding down.  "It just wouldn't be the same—Jack Sparrow the eunuch?  Hardly."  Her voice became arch.  "Besides, I understand you have a use for those parts of him yourself."

Laughter filled the house again—only this time it was Tia's deep chuckles.  " _Wi_.  'Twoud be a terrible loss for de women in de Caribbean if Jack Sparrow lost 'im cock."

"Tia Dalma!"  The voice on the wind was scandalised.  "That is why I cannot conceive of you ever using this spell."

An eyebrow went up, and a smirk played around Tia's painted lips.  "But it be good for threats."

"Indeed it is," Stella agreed.  "Very well. It goes something like this..."

* * *

 

The conversation ended shortly thereafter.  No sooner had the two witches bid each other farewell than Stella quickly opened her eyes, peering down at the stone around her.

"Damn!" she said petulantly.

It was a tradition, after all.  The nature of Stella's spell required that the caster's eyes be closed.  Sometime between the beginning and the end, the markings on the ground vanished; Stella's mother had likened it to a brushfire.  The marks closest to the caster flashed violet and evaporated, and then the rest followed suit like a stack of dominoes falling over.  The way Eleanor had described it sounded fascinating, and Stella had always wanted to watch it happen.  But Nell couldn't cast the spell, and Stella could never get her eyes open fast enough.  She had been trying for years, but had been thwarted in every attempt she made.

"Maybe one day I will see it," she commented to herself, wincing as she stood and the muscles in her legs protested.

The sun was beginning its long slide down to the horizon as Stella gathered her effects and began her trek back to her home.  She hummed quietly under her breath and swung her basket as she walked.  Had she not been a mature woman of twenty-three, she might have skipped a bit as well.  After all, the news from Tia Dalma was good, she had the mental image of Jack Sparrow à la eunuch to amuse her, and the passion fruit tree had produced several fruits that were waiting for her at home.

All in all, it had been a fair decent day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N part deux: So, that's that. The real action will get going in the next chapter, in which a certain naval officer makes his appearance. Woo-hoo!_
> 
>   _I'd like it if you reviewed. I'm like Louix XVI; I always need confirmation of my own existence._
> 
>  (Holy hell, I was so fricking *young*.)


	4. Stella Perditi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things begin and end, and a British naval officer comes to Tortuga.

Life returned mostly to normal afterwards.  It was almost as if nothing had happened at all.  There were a few changes, though, that reminded Stella of what had come to pass.

Hector Barbossa never darkened her door again, for obvious reasons. 

In his place, however, came Jack Sparrow.  He was a guest at her house a little more frequently than before—now that Captain Sparrow had a ship to captain again, he had more of a need for favourable winds to push his Pearl along, especially since there was also the matter of the navy’s dogged pursuit.  Stella liked to think that the winds Jack purchased from her were the only reason he was so skilfully able to evade the fleet sent after him.

The last alteration was more of a personal choice than a result of circumstances: Stella began to frequent the port town near her home.  Previously, she’d only gone to the port once a week—on Mondays, to buy those things she could not make herself and deal with the customers too cowardly to trek through the graveyard to her home.  Now she went nearly every day, stretching her senses to the limit as she tried to find the lost man Tia Dalma predicted would come.  The lost man who would take her away from Tortuga within three years.

And preferably not as a corpse.

It was a morbid, but definite, possibility—one that worried her more than she was willing to admit.  Tia Dalma assured her she would get off Tortuga, but failed to mention in what condition. That lack of detail might make all the difference.  After all, Stella could die and then leave Tortuga in a coffin.  It was therefore technically a correct prediction (as if Tia Dalma made any other kind), but one that wouldn’t do Stella a lick of good.

That fear drove her to swallow her disgust and spend more time in town.  If she was to find the lost man, she needed to be around people.  Soon enough she became a familiar sight in the port, and no one batted an eye at the sight of Black Stella meandering through the crowds with a tattered parasol shielding her from the sun.

There had been the odd hitch at first, of course.  Men unfamiliar with her name and the tale of Ned Murphy attempted to proposition her as she strolled along the docks; women whispered behind their hands as she passed them in the streets.  She’d cursed more people in the first six months than she had in the previous six years.

But that show of temper had served her well.  No one jeered or catcalled now; instead, the people fell quiet whenever she passed.  The brave ones called out courteous greetings, wishing her health.  That was her triumph: she had forced the citizens to respect her, made them dance to her tune.  It somehow made the dirty little port that much more bearable.

Months passed, sinking slowly into the muck of the Tortugan streets.  There was still no sight of the lost man.  Stella continued watching and waiting.  A year passed; suddenly it was hurricane season again.

The one-year anniversary of her conversation with Tia Dalma concerning Jack Sparrow found Stella standing at the end of a dock, staring across the water at the horizon.  Another storm was passing by—not so close to Tortuga to be worrisome, but close enough to bring rain and make her head ache.

"Hurricane season," she muttered sourly, wrapping her black cloak closer around her shoulders as the wind and rain lashed at her face.  The best way, Stella found, to soothe the dull pain in her sinuses was to go out and let the storm overtake her.  The ache was then effortlessly ignored.  But the tingling in her otherworldly senses was not so easily brushed aside.

It was getting worse.  Well... worse, in the sense of very strong and very distracting.  That sensation had been in the back of her mind since that evening a year ago when young William Turner brought his promise into her home.  It had not waned.  Whatever Jack Sparrow had done (or was doing) continued to echo, and the anticipation of _something_ was so potent in the air that Stella could taste it.

Really, she could.

Tasted a bit like lemon, in fact.

Stella remained on the dock until the rain began to slow and the rumbling clouds made their way north.  She was soaked to the skin, her black cloak waterlogged and her long hair plastered to her neck.  These annoyances were hardly noted at all as she took deep breaths, inhaling the scent of salt and rain and fighting the urge to start laughing at nothing.

Her time was coming.  She could feel it.

* * *

James Norrington, on the other hand, felt that his time was ending.  Things had slipped so rapidly out of his control that he wasn’t sure how to go about fixing them.  It seemed like he would just blink, and everything around him would have changed.

He had been promoted to commodore.  He was preparing to propose to Elizabeth Swann, after waiting so long for her to grow up.  Life was good.

He was commodore.  He had Jack Sparrow behind bars.  He had proposed—albeit he didn’t have an answer yet, but he was confident.  Life was superb.

Things started to go wrong.  That ghastly ship attacked Port Royal.  Elizabeth was kidnapped. Jack Sparrow escaped; the Interceptor was stolen.  These two events were directly related.  But he was still on top of things, oh yes.  Life was complicated, but would improve shortly.

Life improved.  There he was, engaged to Elizabeth, with Jack Sparrow’s neck in the noose and another forty-some pirates waiting to hang.

_Blink._

He still wasn’t rightly sure what, exactly, had happened in that moment when his eyes were closed.  All he knew was that at the end of it Jack Sparrow went free, he was no longer engaged, and Elizabeth was kissing that blacksmith.

Now he was chasing Sparrow across the Caribbean, goaded by the knowledge that he might loose everything if he couldn’t remedy that one mistake.  The government was not amused by his explanations—he should’ve known they wouldn’t understand un-dead pirates, or comprehend why it seemed that letting Sparrow go was the right thing to do.  Most of the time he didn’t understand it himself, and kicked himself for his lapse in judgment.

That storm.  That terrible, wretched storm took everything away.  Sparrow was finally within reach of his fingers, after dodging him all over the Atlantic.  Honestly, the pirate had the most devilish luck.  Whenever he got close, the winds picked up and sent the Black Pearl dancing away.

He didn’t know it was going to be as bad as it was.  He didn’t.  If he’d any inkling of the fury that awaited them under the dark clouds, he never would have given orders to sail on through.

But he did.  The hurricane was terrible.  In the end, the ship floundered, and only eight men (including himself) had come out alive.

And now he was back in Port Royal, sitting in his office with a sifter of brandy, trying vainly to figure out when, exactly, things had gone so very insane.  He hadn’t quite put his finger on it yet, but he had a feeling Jack Sparrow was at the centre of all his problems.

Norrington sighed heavily, and took another drink.  He kept blinking, hoping that the situation would change again in the brief time his eyes were closed; change into something a little more hospitable.

A knock on the door jerked him out of his contemplation.  "Enter," he commanded.  The door swung open to reveal a man in the blue uniform and white wig of a naval officer.  "Ah, Groves," Norrington sighed, beckoning him inside.  "Brandy?"

"No, thank you, sir," the lieutenant demurred.  "I hope I’m not intruding...?"

"No," Norrington said, shaking his head.  "I was just writing the last of the letters."

He ignored the flash of pity in his subordinate’s eyes and took another sip from his glass instead.  Norrington had been writing a goodly amount of letters lately—missives to the families of those men who were lost in action under his command.  He’d written a rash of them after the fiasco with those  cursed pirates, and now he was composing another slough for the men lost when the _Dauntless_ floundered.  The whole procedure was discomforting, but it needed to be done.  The families of the dead deserved to know that their sons had been lost because of his stupidity.

Of course, he never put it quite so bluntly in the letters.

"Does the admiralty know, sir?" Groves inquired after a moment.

"Yes," Norrington replied, suppressing a wince.  "The vessel that rescued us encountered a courier ship on our way back to Port Royal.  I should imagine the Crown is well aware of the circumstances by this point."  He stifled a sigh, before changing the subject.  "What do you need, Lieutenant Groves?  I assume you did not come to watch me wallow in self-pity."

"Of course not, sir.  The men and I were worried—you haven’t left the office since this morning," Groves explained.

"I’m fine," Norrington assured him tiredly, rubbing his eyes.

"Have you eaten anything, sir?"

"I had tea."

"You should come down to the mess for supper, sir," Groves suggested.

Norrington grimaced.  He didn’t want to be around people right now.  He didn’t want to see the disappointment in their eyes, or deal with their pity.  "When did it all go wrong?" he wondered aloud.  Then he chastised himself as Groves looked at him curiously.  It seemed the alcohol was loosening his tongue.

The compassion in Groves' eyes was painful—Norrington didn’t want to need it, but it was a pleasant change from the bafflement and displeasure from everyone else.  "Wrong, sir?"

"Never mind, Groves," he sighed.

There was a pause.  "It's not your fault, sir.  No one holds you responsible," Groves said quietly, breaking the silence.

"I never thought you were a man to lie, Theodore," Norrington remarked dryly, raising his eyebrows tiredly.  "Of course they hold me responsible—I am."

"Well, no one blames you for the way it turned out, then," Groves replied lamely.  "It'll all blow over in a few months."

"Dear God, I hope so," Norrington muttered, shuffling his papers into some form of order.  He rubbed his eyes and squinted at the script, trying to make out the words in the candlelight.

After a moment, he realised Groves was still there.  He looked quizzically up at the lieutenant.

"With all due respect, sir, you look terrible," the brunet announced, coming closer to the desk.  "Perhaps you should retire, get some sleep?  It will all look better in the morning.  At the very least, you’ll find it easier to concentrate."

Nodding, Norrington corked his inkwell and prepared to leave.  He mechanically collected his things and allowed the lieutenant to accompany him to his quarters.  As he laid his head on the pillow, clean and white and starched, he desperately hoped Groves was right.

After all, things couldn’t get much worse, could they?

Things got worse.  Much worse.

A month later he received a letter from the admiralty strongly suggesting that he should resign his commission and save himself the indignity and the government the trouble of having him dishonourably discharged on account of gross incompetence.

There wasn’t much to say to that.  Desperate to save what remained of his tattered reputation and his very battered honour, Norrington did as advised.  He resigned his commission, collected a few effects and several bottles of whiskey, and left Port Royal.  He couldn’t stand to stay there as it was, a fallen man with no life or livelihood and with Miss Swann engaged to William Turner.

So he left.  Got passage on a ship, without knowing or caring about the destination, and left, without bothering to bid farewell to anyone.  There wasn’t anyone who’d care, after all.

He hadn’t bothered to change out of his uniform; the blue brocade, gold trim, and powdered wig were still intact.  It made him stick out like a sore thumb among the scruffier crew of the _Morningstar_.  Trying desperately to find something good in the situation as he stood on the bow of the ship, wind against his face and the fire of the liquor in his belly, Norrington wondered how things could possibly be worse.

Upon retrospect, Norrington probably should have asked where the _Morningstar_ was going.  Because he found himself disembarking at Tortuga.  Which meant he sailed with and was surrounded by pirates.

This was worse.  He felt unclean.

Liquor, however, was liquor, no matter where it was acquired.  And he needed some—his supply had been exhausted during the jaunt from Jamaica to Tortuga.  He wanted desperately to forget... everything.  Forget that he was disgraced, surrounded by the scum of the Caribbean, and that he’d lost two things he’d loved best.

So he wandered into a tavern—he didn’t bother to look for the name—and got himself a bottle of rum.  If he was going to be surrounded by pirates, he might as well drink like one.

* * *

 

Had Norrington been thinking properly, he would have realised this was a very bad idea.  However, he had spent the last two days in various states of inebriation, was deeply depressed, and was hence not thinking straight.

After all, it was a intensely stupid thing for a man known around the Caribbean as “The Scourge of Piracy” to walk into a pub in a pirate port wearing a naval uniform and sit down for a drink.  It was even more foolish for said man to get completely and utterly intoxicated, because he then became unaware of his surroundings, and oblivious to the threat to his life.

The navy was not a popular institution in Tortuga, nor was Norrington was a popular man.  A navy gentleman of obviously high rank was pretty much asking to be mugged, shot, or assaulted in a various manner of unpleasant ways—especially in the _Faithful Bride_.

There was no need for the men in the tavern to speak their intentions aloud.  Everyone knew what was going to happen.  Five of the largest stood, and made their way slowly through the crowd towards the table in the corner where Norrington was seated.

The ex-commodore was unpleasantly surprised when his drink was interrupted.  A meaty hand suddenly landed on his left shoulder and he was unceremoniously hauled to his feat.  Norrington blinked blearily at the man holding him up—a burly blonde who was grinning at him in a decidedly unfriendly manner.

That was the last thing he noticed before he took a fist straight to the jaw.  The pub exploded shortly thereafter.

In a normal bar-fighting situation, Norrington would’ve given just as good as he got (not that Norrington ever found himself in many bar-fights, of course).  However, he was currently intoxicated, without his sword, and outnumbered.  As such, he lost.  Thoroughly.

Thus, James Norrington came within a hair’s-breadth of being beaten to death on the floor of the _Faithful Bride_.  But as he was preparing to sustain another kick to the kidneys, the door of the tavern blew violently open.

The momentum of the wind slammed the door into the wall with a loud bang, before ripping through the crowd, knocking off hats and stinging eyes.  All activity—including the brawl around Norrington—came to a halt as the wind whistled back to the doorway and faded into nothingness, the only sound the faint chiming of tiny bells.

By this point, every inhabitant of Tortuga knew that sound and what it portended.  So as a slight figure swathed in a black cloak stepped lightly into the pub, every man who wore a hat doffed it respectfully, and a soft murmur of polite salutation rippled through the room.

Black Stella smiled the same faint smile that had so disconcerted William Turner.  "My goodness, it certainly appears that we have had some excitement here," she remarked pleasantly, stepping further into the room.  The patrons parted like the Red Sea before her as she moved, always keeping an arm’s length away.  "May I inquire as to the occasion?"

An awkward silence descended, broken only by the shuffling of feet.  No one seemed to be sure if Miss Bell was being sarcastic or in earnest.  Her thin eyebrows soon answered that question; they rose in dark arches over her cold black eyes—an impatient gesture indicating that she did, indeed, want an answer.

"Naval gent came in 'ere," one brave soul finally muttered.  "Lads wanted t'teach 'im a lesson."

"Really, a gentleman coming in here for a drink? How dare he?  The sheer nerve!  My God, he'll be wanting food next."  The scorn in Black Stella's voice caused several men to flush and rub their necks uneasily—when she said it like that, they sounded rather foolish.

Of course, not all the patrons were thus cowed.  "But 'e's a navy bastard, an' a Brit t'boot!" protested one of the men over by Norrington—the stringy one who'd been preparing to kick the man in the back, as a matter of fact.

The man—a gangly Spaniard with a ragged beard and a scar on his left cheek—was braver than most of the men in Tortuga: he actually stood his ground when Black Stella turned her gaze to him, features arranged in an expression that would've been polite curiosity were it not for the malicious glitter in her dark eyes.  "Really?" the witch inquired mildly.  "Perhaps I might see this naval officer who offended you all so heinously by entering the tavern for a drink?"

It wasn't really a request.  As Stella approached, the men surrounding the battered ex-commodore reluctantly backed away.   They weren't keen to leave the beating unfinished, but one did not deny Black Stella.

The _Faithful Bride_ remained mired in uncomfortable silence as Miss Bell knelt next to the battered bundle of blue cloth, gold trim, and blood.    She reached out a hand to the officer's face, and the rest of the tavern took a quick breath in.  Was she going to curse the man?

* * *

 

"I know you."

This softly-spoken declaration was accompanied by a gentle touch on his face as a swathe of fabric wafted to rest on his hand.

Norrington raised his head at the contact, looking blearily up at the source.  He grasped the cloth lying on his hand, clutching it in a desperate attempt to gain some balance. His overall impression was black: black clothing, black hair... black spots dancing across his vision.  He was nevertheless fairly certain the person kneeling over him was a woman.  The hand on his cheek was smooth and cool, and the sheer amount of cloth clenched in his fist surely portended the presence of skirts.

"I know you..." the strange woman repeated.

He rather wished he could say the same.  Instead, he clung to the skirt, trying mightily to stay conscious.

Abruptly, the hand was removed and a fold of dark fabric brushed his nose as the woman quickly drew herself up and turned to face the room.  "Leave him be," Norrington heard her command.

The babble of talk spread through the room, and the five men closest—the ones who'd been giving him the most thorough beating he'd received since his early navy days—began to shout.

"D'ye mean—"

"Ye don' mean—!"

"That's not—"

"¿Está loca usted?"

" _Vous_ can't do that!"

The sharp voice of the woman in black cut through the din. "I assure you, I can and I will.  You'll not lay another hand on this man on pain of my severe displeasure."

Apparently this woman's displeasure was a fearsome thing to suffer, since the patrons of the _Faithful Bride_ were all nodding fervently.  The grimy Spaniard who had a tendency to deliver kicks to dishonourable locations, however, was not cowed at all, and pulled out a dagger.  He pointed it threateningly at the woman, ignoring the tugs on his arm and the urgent whispers to put it down.

"Ye meddlin' little trollop!" the man snarled.  "Get out o' th' way, or I'll cut yer pretty face t'ribbons!"

Norrington tightened his grip on the lady's skirts, tensing his muscles in preparation to spring to her defence, if needed.  That was the plan, anyway, until a foot clad in a leather slipper pressed down on his wrist.  The message was obvious, and he loosened his grip.

Meanwhile, the owner of the foot had started laughing.  "Really, how asinine," she chuckled.  "You'd better put that away, before I loose my temper."

The blond who had thrown the first punch resumed the tugging on the Spaniard's arm.  "Luis, leave 'em be—that's Black Stella," he insisted.

Luis jerked his arm violently away.  "I don' care if'n she's th'Queen o' all England!" he snarled, before lunging at the woman still resting her foot on Norrington's wrist.

Norrington shook the foot off and tried to sit up while fumbling for his sword (forgetting, of course, that he hadn't one).  He knew, deep down, he couldn't do anything but get stabbed himself, but he wouldn't have been James Norrington if he didn't at least try to protect her.

However, before Luis' grimy hands could make purchase around the woman's neck, she spat out a word (or it could've been several words) in a language Norrington didn't know.   The man promptly collapsed, screaming, to the floor.

A deathly silence descended.  The only sounds were the moans and cries of Luis, lying at the feet of Black Stella.  The entire tavern was looking at her expectantly.

Finally, she spoke.  Her voice was cold and crisp.  "This man is mine.  He is under my protection from this moment on.  I trust you all understand the ramifications of this claim, and the consequences if you should be found poaching?"

A murmur of agreement ran through the pub.

"Splendid.  I'm sure we'll all get along well enough now that this unpleasant business," punctuated with a disdainful nudge at the man still whimpering at her feet, "is out of the way."

With that, the woman turned back to Norrington—who was still clinging to the woman's skirts and quietly indignant at being classified as property—and the pub returned mostly to normal.  The men drifted back to their tables, the wenches resumed serving and laughing and dancing, and Luis was dragged off somewhere, leaving behind only a few drops of blood.

"I suppose I should thank you, madam," Norrington announced sourly, speech slightly slurred, once the woman's attention was back on him.

She looked at him for a moment, before chuckling darkly.  "Ah, I see I have wounded the delicate entity known as masculine pride.  Do forgive me for interfering with your manly scrapping, but since I have a use for you I was disinclined to see you beaten to death, which surely would have occurred had I not stepped in," she drawled.

Norrington scowled.  She was right, this woman who resembled nothing so much as a great black crow, with her black hair and garb and eyes and a voice harsh like the caws of those ruddy birds.

...He hadn't seen crows since he left England.  About eleven years, perhaps.  Maybe twelve.

"You're going to swoon shortly," the crow-woman announced, breaking into his thoughts.  "So I shall tell you now that I'm taking you to my home."

"I don't swoon," Norrington muttered.

"Really?"  And then she reached a thin white hand out and pressed firmly on his ribs.  The pain rose up like the waves that had swamped the _Dauntless_.  Then the world went black.

* * *

 Stella chuckled.  "Men."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Apparently there *are* crows in the Caribbean, and I was confused with ravens, which there aren't. That's my bad, though!


	5. Stella Fati

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which James Norrington becomes acquainted with Miss Stella Bell, and makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N: Whee, chapter 4! It was scads of fun to write, since Norrington and the OC actually got to interact in this one. And when you put two such snarky characters in a small house together... gosh, it was all manner of fun!_
> 
> _Also, important note! I am going to England on the 24th, where I will be spending a year studying at Oxford. As such, I'm going on a bit of a hiatus because... y'know, I'll be in England. And then I'll be in school. However, I have no intentions of abandoning the fic. Chapter 5 will show up at some point, and updates thereafter will be slower in coming because there's just so much to see! Please be patient with me._
> 
> _That said, here are the fruits of my labours. Enjoy!_
> 
> England was hella fun, in case you were wondering. ;)
> 
> (England was fun, btw. That's why I've preserved these notes, because they remind me of all the stuff I was doing at the time.)

When Norrington woke up, he didn't know where he was.

This wasn't the normal waking-up-after-a-night-of-overindulgence disorientation; he was certain he had never seen this room before, nor had he any idea how he'd gotten there.  He blinked a few times, but other than sending his surroundings into focus, nothing happened.  The tableau in front of his eyes was the same, and still very unfamiliar.

He was lying on a crude pallet, made up mostly of blankets and a rather limp pillow, on a wooden floor.  There was a wall immediately to his back, a shelf of books at his feet, and several hanks of yarn above his head.  His blue brocade coat was hung over the back of a chair pushed up to a table in the centre of the room; he could see his hat sitting on the seat of the chair and his boots beneath it, resting against the meagre satchel of his belongings.  The sun was slanting in through a couple of windows to his left; the angle indicated that it was late morning, at least.   It made the room seem warm and pleasant, if a bit shabby.  Nevertheless, this home was obviously lived-in, which led him to believe that although he was alone now, such a condition would not last.

Gritting his teeth, James edged himself into a sitting position, relying heavily on the wall.  His ribs ached abominably, his head was throbbing, and it felt like he'd been pounded on all over.

Wait...

James scowled as memory returned: the tavern, the fight, and the woman.  It seemed he had been pounded on all over.

He wasn't entirely sure, however, how far to trust the integrity of his remembrances—after all, he seemed to recall the woman (who, to the best of his recollections, resembled a crow) dropping a man with only a word and commanding an entire pirate's tavern with her mere presence.   Nevertheless, he distinctly remembered hearing that he was to be taken to her home—which was where he presumably was now.

There was, however, no sign of his hostess.  A half-hour later, there was still no sign of his hostess, and he was bored and hungry.  But he couldn't see any food in clear sight (and was far too much of a gentleman to pilfer through a strange woman's cupboards) and when he'd tried to stand his ribs had protested loudly.

A half-hour after that found the ex-Commodore wedged into the corner of the wall and the bookshelf, slowly shimmying into an upright position.  The attempt to keep his spine ramrod-straight in order not to jostle his ribs or his head meant his hips and his legs were doing most of the wiggling, and James had a feeling he looked decidedly ridiculous.  At least there was no one around to witness it.

He finally got himself upright, and spent the next few minutes exploring the layout of the house (save the room behind a curtain of green silk embroidered with blue flowers, of course), peering through the windows (and making a mental note to inquire if that was actually a graveyard to the south), and trying (and failing) to put on his boots.  Eventually he pulled a book off one of the shelves (a collection of the plays of Sophocles) and sat down to amuse himself.

Oedipus was conversing with Jocasta and Creon when the sound of chiming bells made its way to Norrington's ears.  He looked up in time to see the door of the cottage swing open, revealing a skinny woman in a washed-out green dress.  There was a large wicker basket on her arm, a tattered lace parasol in her hand, and a huge straw hat perched on her head.

"Good morning," she bid him, with a hint of what was probably amusement in a voice that called black birds to mind.

"Madam," Norrington replied courteously, moving to stand.

Before he could do more than place his palms on the table, however, the woman waved a thin hand in his direction.  "You needn't bother to stand; I know your ribs must ache," she said nonchalantly, hanging her hat on a peg by the door and smoothing her black hair.  "I can make a... tonic... for that, if you wish."

"Thank you, I would be most grateful," was all he could think to reply.

Silence descended as the woman languidly unpacked her basket and placed the contents in various locations around the room.  James took the opportunity to study the person whose home he was currently occupying.

He knew her now—he was indeed in the home of the woman from last night.  James hadn't recognised her at first, but after she had removed the hat and spoken he remembered her.  However, he very much doubted his memories now—there was no way in heaven or hell this woman could command a pub full of pirates.

She was, after all, small.  That was really the best descriptor, James felt.  She was at least a hand's-span shorter than Miss Swann; the top of her dark head would barely reach his chin.  Added onto her dearth of stature, she appeared to be terribly fine-boned—birdlike, even.

In fact, James mused, watching the woman flit around the room, it seemed his initial assessment of her as a crow was more accurate than it had a right to be.  Her hair and eyes were as black as crow feathers, and her features were sharp.  The nose, in particular, was rather long and pointed.

She wasn't beautiful.  Couldn't hold a candle to Miss Swann, James concluded, savouring the ache as the beloved visage intruded on his thoughts.  Elizabeth was stunning—rich and ripe, substantial and real with her golden-brown hair and skin that, albeit pale, still glowed with health.  This woman was slight and stark and airy—he wondered if he could see her veins if she got close enough.  Definitely not the sort of woman who could order a single pirate around, let alone a crowd of them.

This of course left him with the question of what really happened last night.

As the woman (James made a mental note to ask her name) returned to the table with a variety of bottles in her arms, he gathered his thoughts together and inquired, "How did I come to be here?"

A thin black brow arched over a dark eye.  "The usual way, I assume."

James frowned—the usual way?  What sort of person was she that there was a "usual way" for men to appear in her home?  "And what is the usual way, Madam?" he demanded curtly.

A patronising smirk curled the woman's thin lips.  "Surely you know how babies are made."

"I didn't mean it like that," James snapped irritably.

"Then you must learn to be more specific," the woman replied sharply, sending him a quelling glare.  "Now, did you wish to know how you came to be on Tortuga in general or my home in particular?"

"The latter, if you please," he replied through clenched teeth.

The woman didn't reply right away, but retrieved an earthenware jug and a very old, very large, very battered book and set them both on the table.  As she flipped through cracked pages, she explained the situation in a cool, disinterested tone of voice.

"I found you in a prone position on the floor of _The_ _Faithful Bride_ last night, about to be kicked to death by some rather unsavoury men.   As I was reluctant to see you shuffle off your mortal coil, since that would have most likely rendered you completely useless to me, I intervened."

While speaking, the woman had apparently found the page she was looking for; it appeared to be a recipe, since she began to follow it, marking each line with a spindly finger.  James didn't recognise any of the ingredients she poured into the jug off-hand—then again, he'd never studied as an apothecary.

After adding a spoonful of a viscous, opaque liquid to the concoction in the bowl, she continued.  "You swooned shortly thereafter, and I enlisted the help of some... patrons... to carry you here.  While you are under my protection, it hadn't been long enough for word to get around to the entire town, and I didn't want you robbed or stabbed or inadvertently killed if I left you to your own devices in town."

Evidently that was the end of the story, since the woman not only ceased speaking, but also glanced at him, eyebrows raised in an expression of polite curiosity that seemed to indicate she was ready to accept questions.  This woman had very expressive eyebrows, James decided, before organising the list of inquiries in his head and firing away.  "Of what, exactly, was your 'intervention' comprised?"

An expression consisting mostly of a smug smirk flitted across her pale face and reminded him uncomfortably of Jack Sparrow.  "The usual."

"Which consists of what?" James pressed.  Honestly, talking to this woman was like trying to talk to... Sparrow, as a matter of fact.  Simple questions got vague and incomprehensible answers.  The only difference was that the woman was not nearly as loquacious as the captain of _The_ _Black Pearl_.

"Intimidation and castration," she replied lightly, adding to the jug three cups of liquid from a kettle suspended over the fire.  Then she corked it and shook the whole flagon heartily.

It took him a moment to process what, exactly, she had said.  "Castration?"

"That is what I said."  She set the jug back on the table and looked at him for a long moment, making him inexplicably uncomfortable.  Eventually she smiled a smile that made him even more discomfited.

"I see you doubt your own recollections of the night, Mister...?"  She trailed off, raising her eyebrows in a silent inquiry.

"Norrington," he supplied, as expected.

The woman nodded.  "Mr. Norrington," she said slowly, turning to fetch a mug from one of her cupboards.  "You shouldn't.  Most of your memories, though dulled by drink, are fairly accurate."

How on earth could she know what he remembered?  "Forgive me, but I have trouble believing that you..." he trailed off, not quite sure how to express his disbelief.

"Can order hardened pirates around?" she supplied, with that disturbing little smile lurking in the corners of her lips.

James nodded, and she laughed.  Her laugh was almost as bad as her smile.  There was no mirth in it—just ridicule.  He felt the back of his neck flush red, and then scolded himself for caring that this strange woman was mocking him.

"Appearances can be very deceiving, Mr. Norrington," the woman informed him, once she'd stopped laughing.  She uncorked the jug and poured the contents into the mug—it looked like unappetising greenish sludge.   "Many things on this island are not as they seem.  Yourself, for one example.  And I, for another."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Surely it's obvious," she drawled, setting the flagon aside and focussing her entire attention onto him. "You are not among the usual ilk for this sort of place.  You were apparently a high-ranking officer in the navy—a gentleman, a commander.  Unless I'm very much mistaken, you had a bright future before you: wealth, renown, honour.  You were certainly not someone expected to end up among the scum of the Caribbean in a pirate port.   Yet here you are, the diamond in the dung-heap."

"And you?"  James met her black eyes unflinchingly, disquiet shoved aside in the wake of the bitterness and regret her words had raised.  "Are you another 'diamond in the dung-heap'?"

A strange, almost unhappy expression tightened the woman's sharp features for a moment, but smoothed out almost as soon as the tension had appeared.  "There really isn't a fitting metaphor for what I am."

She forestalled the inevitable question of what she was by setting the mug before him (after stirring the contents of the mug with some kind of carved wooden stick).  "Drink it," she commanded.  Correctly interpreting the expression on his face, she added, "It will help your injuries, though it will taste thoroughly wretched—most medicines do.  But plug your nose and do as you're told."

Wretched woman.  Who did she think she was, ordering him around?  He was an officer in His Majesty's Royal Navy!

...Or he had been, at least.  Now he was just an aimless wanderer.  Thus he supposed the woman could, in fact, order him around.  Especially since this was her house.  So James merely scowled and slammed the contents of the mug back.

It tasted as bad as it looked.

No sooner had he finished one mug than he was presented with another.  He drank it without complaint, as he did the one after that.  The taste did not improve upon repetition.  Thankfully, after the third mug there was no more.

"That tasted foul," he announced.

The woman didn't reply, but tapped him on the forehead with the same stick she'd used to stir the concoction she'd just poured down his throat.  Suddenly, he felt better—a lot better, as a matter of fact.  The dull throbbing in his chest and head immediately lessened.

James turned to stare incredulously at her.  She smiled again, a curl of her lips and a glitter in her eyes that spoke of secrets and shadows and actual amusement, for a change.  "What did you do?" he whispered.

"Helped you," she replied simply, before collecting the mug, the jug, and the stick.  "Your ribs will be tender for the next few days, so I would not advise doing any strenuous lifting... or getting into any more bar-fights.  I'm afraid my talents do not run to healing, as my mother's did.  She could've healed you entirely.  Nevertheless, what I did will help."

"But what did you do?" he insisted.

"I gave you a tonic to drink—honestly, I should think it would be plainly obvious what I did," she said, rolling her eyes and swirling away to put the dishes in a tub by the door.

"A tonic?"

"How many times will I be asked to repeat this?  Are you hard of hearing?  Did the blows to your head perhaps do you permanent damage?"  An eyebrow raise and a sneer painted her face as she added, "Or are you simply one of those 'enlightened' and 'reasonable' Europeans who doesn't believe in anything he can't see?"

The scorn dripping from her voice made him bristle, and he retorted with an equal amount of disdain in his own.  "And what, pray tell, am I unable to see, Madam?  Since you are obviously so very enlightened yourself."

In a flurry of black hair and green dress she was back at the table, nose to nose with him, resting her palms on the table as she leaned in.

"What do you feel here, Mr. Norrington?" she hissed, black eyes cold and intense as they held his.  "Something that makes the hairs on the back of you neck stand on end and your insides shiver—does that sound about right?  But you don't believe in superstition; your education has told you that everything can be explained scientifically, can it not?  So there must be some mundane, rational reason why I disconcert you so.  Perhaps it's my eyes, or my voice, or the way I carry myself."

She leaned even closer, forcing him into the back of the chair.  The very tip of her pointed nose was a bare millimetre from his as she went on.

"But deep down, in the visceral part of your soul that your proper British education wasn't able to touch, you know why it is I scare you.  You know, subconsciously, what it is you feel.  Some primal part of you recognises it, and cowers in awe and respect.  Your 'higher senses' don't understand that instinctive reverence, and thus you feel uncomfortable, because your reason tells you there's nothing to fear—that I am truly an inferior, weaker being.  But your heart knows that I am powerful, and strong, and this contradiction between reason and... 'superstition'... is the source of your shivers."

Said shivers were inspired by the way her spindly white fingers were trailing up his arms.  A strange breeze had sprung up, and was swirling in a tightly contained whirlwind around them—and only them.  The green curtain in the back of the room wasn't even stirred, whereas his eyes were watering from the wind.  The woman's long black hair had been pulled out of the knot she'd tied it in, and was being artfully wafted and tossed on the breeze, writhing like snakes around her shoulders.

The 'visceral part of his soul' was shaking in its boots, but James had long been accustomed to shoving the fear away and letting his 'higher senses' have reign.  This practise had served him well against Barbossa's cursed crew, and he'd been able to face them with a cool head.  After those fleshless skeletons that were systematically killing his men, this woman could not faze him.

Indeed, he felt stronger right now than he had in a long time.  This was a simple situation of attempted intimidation, and he could deal with it.  He was finally able to summon up what was left of his military steel and use it to gird his loins (so to speak).

And at this point, he felt that his loins were in a certain amount of danger, since the woman was nearly in his lap, pinning him to the chair.  Had it been anyone else, James would have wondered if she was attempting seduction.  As it was, he was wondering if she was attempting murder.

"So what you are unable to see, Mr. Norrington," she purred into his ear, "is that which you are told does not exist.  Powers and talents dismissed as superstition and old wives' tales, but which are as real as the books and science and technology of your world.  And for all its uses, your reason cannot erase my kind, or our powers, though you push us to the fringes of society and force us to hide.  You've burned us, exiled us, drowned us, and yet we endure.  We are bearers of a legacy far greater than titles or fortune or honour.  That is what you cannot see—my gift.  My mother's legacy, and her mother's, and hers."

He glanced dispassionately at her, forcing himself to be unmoved as tendrils of her dark hair reached out to caress his face.  "Magic?" he queried coolly.

"A blanket term, but functional for those with a limited understanding of the nature of my talents," she replied, just as cool.

He narrowed his eyes.  "You're a witch," James accused, finally understanding.

"Witch," the woman scoffed, chuckling deep in her throat.  "So trivial, so asinine... so stupid.  Honestly, I don't have 'congress with the beast' or drink the blood of children or sour milk with my mere presence.  I simply have... another sense, such as it is, and some rather unique abilities as a result."

There was a smug undertone in her voice, and James was immediately reminded of the man she'd dropped so easily last night.  "Like castrating a man at a word?" he asked sourly, feeling indignant on behalf of the new eunuch.

Her pale face hardened noticeably.  "This is Tortuga, Mr. Norrington," she pointed out grimly.  " _Oderint dum metuant_ —let them hate, so long as they fear, if you are unfamiliar with the Latin.This is not a place for the weak or altruistic.  If you don't make it known that you're either to be bargained with or feared the inhabitants will take of you until there's nothing left."

Suddenly, James felt tired.  "Is there no place for kindness, then?" he inquired dully.

"Do not think that what I did for you was motivated by kindness," the woman scoffed, retreating slightly so that their noses were no longer so close.

"Then what was your motivation, may I ask?"

Apparently feeling that her point had been sufficiently made, the woman moved away to a respectable distance and let the winds die down.  She seated herself gracefully in one of the other chairs, posture straight and hands folded demurely in her lap—an obvious pretence, after all he'd seen.

"I've been waiting for you for a very long time," she began after a moment, fixing an intense gaze on him.  "I hate this island, you see.  For many years all I've wanted is to leave.  I have, however, been quite unable.  Until now.  You, sir, are my way off Tortuga.  I don't know how, or when, but you will eventually take me off this island."

James blinked.  Then he blinked again, furrowing his brow in confusion.  "I'm going to take you off this island?" he repeated sceptically.

"Eventually.  It isn't as though you have to book passage this very moment," the woman replied dismissively, languidly flapping a hand.  "You are, of course, free to do whatever it is you came here to do."

"And I do so thank you for your condescension, my dread lady, because of course I am at your every beck and call," James drawled sarcastically in return.

A brief, surprised expression flashed across her face, and for a moment she was almost pretty.  "I suppose I deserved that," she admitted ruefully, her pale cheeks tinged slightly pink.  "Please forgive my presumption.  It seems my time spent away from polite society has been all the worse for my manners."

James got the feeling he'd somehow impressed her, since she struck him as the sort of woman who very seldom apologised for anything.  So he simply nodded, and said, "Of course, Madam."  Belatedly, he added, "And I never did learn your name."

"Miss Stella Bell," she replied.

"I am at your service, Miss Bell," he acknowledged courteously, but with a twist of bitterness he wasn't quite able to repress.  "Almost literally.  There is no purpose for my presence on this island—save, it seems, for finding you passage off."

Miss Bell tilted her head and regarded him for a moment.  The same discomfiture from before scampered up his spine, accompanied by an urge to flinch away from her eyes.  He wondered if that meant she was magicking him.

"Do you believe in fate, Mr. Norrington?" she asked suddenly.

"Miss Bell?" he queried, uncertain of her meaning and confused by the apparent non sequitur.

"Fate.  Destiny.  The idea that there is some grand and vast pattern out there in which we all have some part.  Do you believe it?"

James considered the notion—he hadn't ever really thought about it before.  "To an extent," he finally decided.

An eyebrow raised expressively over Miss Bell's left eye as she repeated scornfully, "An extent?  That is no answer, sir—merely the feeble demurral of a man who lacks conviction."

"It is an answer," he protested.  "It must suffice, for I can think of no better expression of my sentiments."

"Then elaborate, if you please," Miss Bell requested in that curt tone which indicated her request was more of a command.

"Surely there are events in the world that are so... so utterly strange and which change the world around you so thoroughly that they cannot be but fate," James began awkwardly, trying to order his feelings and thoughts into some semblance of coherence.   "In that sense, I believe in destiny, because there is no other possible explanation as to why the events could have occurred as they did.  Everything was stacked against them, but they happened nonetheless.

"However, that is not to say I believe fate to be some convenient scapegoat for when everything goes wrong.  Sometimes things happen because of one's own failings, and to place the blame on destiny is a weak man's attempt to avoid his own responsibility.  Fate cannot be accountable for every misfortune—occasionally the blame falls solely on the head of he who is the recipient," he finished.  "I hope that answer is more amenable to you, Miss Bell," he added dryly.

"Quite," she replied shortly.  "However, does your presence on Tortuga fall under the former, or the latter?"

"Are you always this... painfully blunt, Miss Bell?" James demanded incredulously.

The eerie half-smile had reappeared.  "On the contrary, Mr. Norrington, I'm attempting to be pointed.  My inquiry?"

"Why does it matter?" he snapped.

"This little exercise is not for my own edification, sir.  The answers we attain will only benefit you," Miss Bell snapped back.  "Why are you here, Mr. Norrington?"

"Because you brought me here when I was unconscious," James answered curtly.

Miss Bell rolled her eyes.  "Why are you here on Tortuga?" she elaborated, placing the emphasis where it belonged.

"You must learn to be more specific," James chastised mockingly, mimicking her tones as he repeated her words back to her.

Annoyance flared in her black eyes like distant lightning in a storm far at sea.  "Why did you come here, to this island?" Miss Bell demanded for the third time.

James shrugged.  "Because I had to make port somewhere, and this was the next place we stopped," he replied simply, deciding to humour Miss Bell before she passed from irritation to ire.

"Not so," Miss Bell corrected him intently, leaning closer.  "Everyone has a reason for coming to Tortuga, Mr. Norrington, even if they are unaware of it."

"Then what was your reason?" he inquired sharply, tiring of her hidden meanings and constant questions.  Couldn't she just tell him what she wanted him to know and let him be?

"We're not speaking of me," she replied coldly, "but of you, and the purpose for your sojourn on this little slice of hell."

"And I've told you, I have no purpose.  I didn't even realise this was where the ship was putting in until it anchored here," James insisted irritably.

Another eye roll.  "Did you not listen to what I said?  There is always a reason to come here, even if you don't consciously know it," Miss Bell said slowly, over-enunciating her words.

"Then how can I possibly tell you what you wish to know when I don't know it myself?"

With an aggravated little huff, Miss Bell subsided slightly.  Had she been a different person, she probably would've pouted a bit as well.  James rather wished she would—it would make her seem... slightly more human.

"Mr. Norrington... Mister Norrington," she repeated after a moment, as if tasting his name.  Then a cruel little half-smirk. "Or should it be Lieutenant Norrington?  Captain Norrington?" she asked, apparently undertaking a new plan of attack.

"Commodore, actually," he replied dully, wishing for nothing more than a full bottle of liquor to dull the memories and reminders of all he had lost.

This declaration apparently surprised his hostess, as a muttered oath reached his ears.  James imagined that Miss Bell's eyebrows were adequately expressing her astonishment, but since he was staring at the floor he couldn't see them.

"How in God's name does the ranking officer in the Caribbean end up being kicked to death on the floor of a pirate tavern?" Miss Bell demanded.

There was actual, incredulous curiosity in her voice when she asked that, instead of the detached, patronising tone she'd adopted when questioning him before.  Perhaps that was why he dragged his eyes from the floor, smiled a smile which felt as heavy as a cannon, and replied, "It's a long story involving my erstwhile fiancé, a hurricane, and one Jack Sparrow."

Miss Bell heaved a sigh and covered her eyes with her hands, as if pained.  "It always involves Jack Sparrow."

James barely heard her.  It seemed like those two words were echoing in his head.  Jack Sparrow.

Suddenly, it made sense.  His entire downfall could be tracked from the moment Jack Sparrow entered his life.  The pirate had effectively ruined his life—if not for Sparrow, he wouldn't have lost all those men to the cursed pirates, nor would he have lost Elizabeth to Turner.  If not for Sparrow, he wouldn't have spent a year chasing _The Black Pearl_ , only to lose so many good sailors and the pride of the Caribbean Navy to a hurricane.  If not for Sparrow, he'd still be the commodore back in Port Royal, instead of a nobody in Tortuga.

"He ruined my life," James ground out harshly, clenching his fists in the fabric of his coat.  He looked sharply up to find Miss Bell's black eyes on him.  "This is a pirate port—does Jack Sparrow ever come here?" he demanded urgently.

Miss Bell gave him a very flat look.  "Of course he comes here—every pirate in the Caribbean eventually comes here."

He nodded as the vague outline of a plan congealed in his head.  "Then the next time he shows his face on this island, I'll kill him," James vowed.

Now that he finally had a purpose, he felt better—there was a clear plan and goal in mind.  Since his ribs were no longer as painful as before, he was able to get his boots on without further problems.

"The way back to the port is through the graveyard and straight south on the path," Miss Bell informed him as he shouldered his bag and jammed his hat on his head.  "It's the only trail there, and after a time you'll be able to follow the sounds of anarchy into town without any trouble."

They had migrated to the door by this point.   James offered her a curt bow.  "Thank you for your hospitality, Miss Bell," he said politely.

Miss Bell curtsied in return.  "You are quite welcome, Mr. Norrington.   Naturally, my door is open should you have need of me again."

He didn't say it aloud, but James privately thought that it'd be a cold day in Hell when that happened.  He was grateful to her for everything she'd done for him, of course, but he didn't like her.  Witchery aside, he found her abrasive, condescending, cutting, and abrupt.  He'd have to be in dire straits indeed to call on her assistance again.

But he said none of this, but bowed again and took his leave, carefully navigating the graveyard as he wound back to the port town and the search for Jack Sparrow.

* * *

Stella watched him go with a bemused smile on her lips.  He cut such an interesting figure, Mr. Norrington, with his reasonably neat appearance and his haughty posture.  His goal was equally interesting, but completely futile.  Did the man honestly think it would be so easy to kill Jack Sparrow?

Then she shrugged, and went to tidy up.  It wasn't any of her affair—as long as the ex-commodore did as he ought to and took her off the island, he was free to try and kill Davy Jones for all she cared.

So she folded the coverlets he'd slept on and placed them back in the blanket chest before turning to shelve the book he'd been reading.  However, the title gave her pause.  _Oedipus Rex_.  It was a tragic, rather depressing play about the caprices and inevitabilities of fate, and an interesting choice of literature for a man who had lost everything and didn't seem to believe in fortune.

"’Why should a mortal man, the sport of chance, with no assured foreknowledge, be afraid?  Best live a careless life from hand to mouth,’" she murmured, reciting Jocasta's ironic lines before shutting the book and returning it to its place on the shelf.

"We shall have to see what manner of life you lead, Mr. Norrington.  I must confess, I find you very curious indeed," Stella commented, resting a finger on the spine of the book.

Then she shook herself out of her contemplation and went to wash the dishes.


	6. Stella Sagittarum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which James Norrington and Miss Stella Bell have a ~~fight~~ discussion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another historical A/N, back from 2006: 
> 
> _A/N: Well, I'm back! I know it's been a long while, but at first it was England, and it was all new, and I had to go everywhere and see everything and meet new people and sample the local ciders (Addlestone's is the best. I will miss it so very much when I return to the states). And then classes really started in earnest... and if you've ever partaken in the Oxford educational system, you know how time-consuming and bloody difficult it can be. So yes, that's why it's taken me so long to get this posted._  
> 
> _But here is chapter number five, which has been thus far the hardest thing for me to write. Seriously, this thing kicked my arse. It's gone through four versions, all written in tiny snatches of time between papers and Latin translations and trips to the Bodleian and day trips to London._  
> 
> _The next couple of chapters are basically just conversational interludes between ex-Commodore James Norrington and Miss Stella Bell, in which they feel each other out (read: snark at each other a lot). Rest assured, however, that I am driving towards another event. It'll just take a while to occur._  
> 
> _Anyway, I hope you all enjoy it. I included extra British, since this sucker was written entirely in England. (Not really.)_

It didn't take long for James to discover that Jack Sparrow wasn't in town, and this discovery left him at something of loose ends.  He didn't really have much of a plan besides "kill Jack Sparrow", and without a Jack Sparrow around to kill... he spent a lot of time in taverns.

He supposed it wasn't as bad as it could've been.  Oh, it was certainly bad.  The room he'd rented was small, smelled like sweat and vomit, had walls as thin as paper, and a lumpy mattress.  He frequently drank a little too much and ended up passed out in places to which he didn't quite remember walking.  His savings were nearly exhausted, and he'd soon have to start selling bits of gold off his coat.

On the other hand, he hadn't been assaulted since that first night, and he was developing a tolerance and a taste for rum.

James supposed a man could get used to anything.

Usually he started his heavy drinking when the sun set, and that November evening was no different.  The ex-commodore departed from the docks, where he spent his days watching for black sails, to a tavern he hadn't patronised the night before.  He ordered a bottle of rum, and sequestered himself in a corner as he prepared to descend into a liquor-induced stupor.

However, before he could get much beyond his first mug, a familiar feeling scampered up his spine.

Norrington heaved a sigh, and buried his unshaven face in his hands. Then he straightened and beckoned the bar wench to bring him another mug.  He wasn't going to be alone for much longer, and might as well prepare himself to be hospitable.  And sure enough, not two moments after the wench had brought him the second vessel did a visage that was becoming all too familiar appear.

As expected, a pair of black eyes immediately sought his countenance out from a position near the doorway, and James met and held them steadily.  Without dropping his gaze, he carefully poured a small serving of rum into the second tankard and set it vigorously across from where he sat, before gesturing gregariously to the extra chairs around the table.  The invitation was obvious.

A moment passed.  The sensation of fingernails dragging along his skin returned, which James took to mean he was being measured.  He didn't look away, but kept staring evenly at the woman in the doorway.

Finally, Miss Bell seemed to deem his invitation acceptable, glided gracefully through the rowdy pirates like a shark through the water, eyes focussed on him all the while.  In a rum-induced fit of whimsy, James wondered idly if her teeth would be pointed should she happen to actually smile.

"You've been watching me for the past fortnight," he accused without preamble as soon as the woman had seated herself in a flurry of black cloak and chiming bells.

"Just checking to see how you fare.  After all, it wouldn't do for me to take you under my protection and then fail to protect you," Miss Bell replied snidely.

"As you can see, Miss Bell, I am quite all right.  Your protection has been quite protective," he returned, giving the woman a sarcastic bow as best he could while seated.

He had tried to be angry about the fact that he was, essentially, cowering behind the skirts of a woman.  However, her influence with the inhabitants of the island was a little too beneficial for him to muster up anything more than faint vexation, and for the most part he was grateful that Miss Bell's intercession enabled him to be left, for the most part, alone.

"And the sight warms the very depths of my heart," she drawled, rolling her black eyes.  "Why the invitation, Mr. Norrington?"

"No reason," Norrington shrugged carelessly, taking another swig of rum.  "I felt as long as you were making such an effort to follow me around, the least I could do was entertain you for a time."  He took another slug.  "Jack Sparrow isn't on the island."

"I know."

"Did you know when I first mentioned wanting to go after Sparrow?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me then?"

"Would it have changed anything?"

James didn't bother to dignify that with a response—not the least because she was right—and silence descended on the little table.

The two of them made an interesting tableau, seated so gracefully with perfect posture when all around them raged chaos.  They looked like a distorted reflection of some aristocratic function, faded with time and pasted into the wrong background.  Despite being dirty and worn, the gentleman's clothing was of a superior cut and quality.  Despite being faded with age, the lady's gown had once been fashionable and well-made.  They were clearly trying to hold onto whatever remnants of upper-class elegance were left to them, and such sophistication was sorely out of place in _The Mermaid's Purse_.

"I must say, you aren't very entertaining," Miss Bell eventually remarked, after another ten minutes passed without a word from either.

"Drink your rum.  I'll become hilarious after about three more glasses," he quipped tartly, downing another swallow himself.  Miss Bell looked dubiously at the glass in front of her, then back up to the him, raising her brows sceptically.  "Admittedly, it isn't much of a lady's drink—then again, you're not much of a lady, are you?" James remarked casually, replying to the unspoken retort.

Miss Bell's black eyes flashed murder for one brief moment, but her features smoothed out into a sweetly quizzical smile that would have looked at home on the countenance of any society lady... were it not for the unmasked malice lurking in the shadows of her face.  Her companion saw none of this, focussed as he was on the contents of the bottle before him.

"Unlike your erstwhile fiancé—what was her name... Elizabeth?" she inquired in return, her crow's voice laced with poisoned honey.

James started violently—her name was something he honestly was not expecting to hear—and jerked his head up.  "How did you hear of her?" he ground out through clenched teeth.

A new smile was making an appearance on Miss Bell's pale face, and this one looked decidedly predatory due to the flash of teeth between her thin lips.  "The whores chatter like birds after the rain, Mr. Norrington.  I daresay half the port knows how you refer constantly to your... pleasurable company... by the same name: Elizabeth," she purred.

"How do you know she was my fiancée?" he demanded harshly, slamming the tankard down.

Miss Bell tossed her dark hair saucily.  The action would have been deemed flirtatious, were it anyone else.  "I didn't," she replied sweetly.  "But your actions have confirmed it beyond a doubt."

"Just because I love her does not necessarily mean she's my fiancée," James said coldly, trying to regain control of the situation.

"Ha," scoffed the witch.  "Aside from the fact that you just told me she was, you are not that sort of man, Mr. Norrington."

"And how, pray tell, do you have any idea about what sort of man I am, Miss Bell?"

The shark's smile morphed into her usual eerie smirk, and the cold sensation of fingers on his spine returned as her black, black eyes bored relentlessly into his.

James suddenly realised why her smiles were always so disconcerting: they never reached her eyes.  No matter how her lips curled, her eyes remained untouched—always watching, and measuring, and knowing.  They were blank and empty and utterly without compassion; so unlike the soft, sparkling brown eyes of they woman they had just been discussing.

"I know, Mr. Norrington," Miss Bell replied simply.  "I know, because I can see every nook and cranny of your starched and tarnished soul.  One of my talents," she added airily.  "I'm quite good at seeing into people—motivations, virtues, vices, flaws, habits, likes, dislikes... there's not a thing about you that I can't see.  Hence, I know you've only loved one woman in your stuffy, static little life.  Since you certainly wouldn't lower yourself to fall in love with some common trollop, Elizabeth must be a higher class lady.  And because she's one of the upper-class—and because you're such a prim-and-proper man—of course you'd propose to her.  But," she sighed dramatically, "just because you propose, doesn't mean she'll accept.  Did she accept you, former-Commodore?"

"I don't see how that's any of your business, Miss Bell," James snapped stiffly, trying to hold onto his dignity as her words struck him like darts.

Miss Bell just smiled.  "Since you refer to her as your fiancée, she must have accepted your suit," she continued thoughtfully, wilfully ignoring the clear indication that he did not want to discuss this.   "However, she is clearly not your fiancée now.  What happened, Mr. Norrington?  She leave you at the altar?  Run off with Jack Sparrow?  Is that why you pursue him so fervently—he stole your intended?"

"No.  Elizabeth's rejection had nothing to do with Jack Sparrow," James snapped, before realising two things: one, that he was talking about it despite his resolution not to, and two, that he couldn't be entirely sure that Elizabeth's rejection had nothing to do with Jack Sparrow.  He had seemed to have catalysed said rejection.

"Ah, so she did reject you!" Miss Bell crowed triumphantly.

"Brava, Miss Bell," James drawled acidly, "for arriving at a conclusion that everyone else is already aware of."

"It's entirely possible that she died," the woman shot back venomously.  "Perhaps it would have been better if she had."

A strange red cloud filled his vision, and it took a moment for him to realise it was rage.  James gathered his thoughts together and shoved them down into a box girded with steel.  At that point he realised he was clenching his jaw so tightly his muscles were cramping, and that he was clutching the rum bottle so fiercely his knuckles were white.

He took a deep breath in.  "Dead or alive, Elizabeth is twice the woman you'll ever be," he said levelly, with just a hint of a snarl.

"At least I keep my word," Miss Bell returned, just as level.

"And how much worth does the word of a witch carry?" he sneered scornfully.

Instead of blushing and looking properly ashamed, as James hoped she would, Miss Bell merely smiled poisonously.  "More than your Elizabeth's, I daresay.  I've never jilted a fiancé."

"She didn't jilt me—I released her from her promise," James replied hollowly.

"Now, I wonder what on earth could have inspired you to do that?" the witch said in false sweetness, widening her black eyes and adopting a mocking façade of curiosity.  "The fact that she loved someone else?"  Her eyes narrowed cunningly.  "A handsome young lad named William Turner, perhaps?"

By now, James no longer questioned how the sharp-tongued harpy acquired her information.  He assumed it was some mystical trickery that she'd wax unintelligible about if questioned, and instead turned his attention ending this conversation as soon as humanly possible.  He felt like his heart was being dragged over rocks and shoved through a meat-grinder with all the painful memories Miss Bell's cruel words were dredging up.

"The circumstances are inconsequential," he said coldly, mustering his strength for another defence.  "I released her, and our relations remained amiable."

"Because you still love her," Miss Bell supplied scornfully, hitting the name of the emotion with a particular venom.  "And because of that love you've ruined your life.  Congratulations, Mr. Norrington."

"Loving Elizabeth had nothing to do with it.  I ruined my life all on my own," James replied sardonically.

Miss Bell smiled.  "Liar."

"What?" James barked.

"Liar," she repeated, over-enunciating the word and narrowing her eyes as she cocked her head to the side and regarded him in a curiously birdlike way.  The prickly feeling returned, and James knew she was looking at him with something beyond her physical eyes. "Loving Elizabeth had everything to do with it, even if you won't acknowledge it."  The prickles increased.  "In fact, there's quite a lot you won't acknowledge—not the least about the nature of your erstwhile fiancée," she added snidely, sitting back in her chair.

James felt the rage bubbling up again, and clenched his hands tightly around the tankard of rum as he reined in his temper.  "Thank you for that undoubtedly impertinent assessment of me and mine, Miss Bell," he said frostily.  "Nevertheless, despite your sentiments about a woman you've never before met, Elizabeth Sw—Miss Elizabeth is a fine woman, and I won't have you impugning her honour.  I'll thank you to stop insulting her, before I have to rethink my policy against striking women."

"You're defending the honour of a woman who cares nothing for you, to the point of compromising your own moral code—how absolutely darling," the witch cooed disdainfully.  "My, it must be pleasant to have a champion—what a pity Miss Elizabeth doesn't appreciate what she has," she sighed.  "Poor ladies such as myself are forced to defend their own honour in the best ways they can."  James was favoured with a tight, curt smile and a significant eyebrow raise, before Miss Bell's voice hardened noticeably.  "And I should warn you that if you persist in impugning my honour, I'll do more than impugn your Elizabeth's.  I'm a hair's breadth away from hexing you."

"I thought you needed me," James sneered.

"I need you alive," Miss Bell returned, baring her teeth in that grim parody of a shark's smile.  "That doesn't mean I can't curse you in a variety of painful and non-lethal ways."

"Do you always curse the people who question your virtue?" he inquired scornfully.

"Usually, no.  I merely look to see what would hurt them most to hear and then speak it aloud.  You have proved yourself surprisingly resistant to that approach, so now I find myself forced to switch tactics."

Miss Bell's blunt reply caught him by surprise, and James just blinked blankly at her for a moment or two.  He could scarcely believe that such relentless verbal malice was the consequence for a couple off-hand remarks he scarcely recalled making.  Mustering his thoughts together, James could only voice the dominant impression in his mind: "You're a cruel woman, Black Stella."

"My cruelty was no greater than your own," Black Stella snapped back.

"I hardly think—"

"I very much dislike hearing my virtue and reputation questioned, Mr. Norrington, nor am I partial to being called a witch to my face," she interrupted sharply.  "It was hardly polite of you to do so, sir.  I fear the company you keep is having a detrimental effect on your once-quite-gentlemanly manners.  At this rate, I daresay you won't be much better than the rest of these pirates by the next fortnight."

James flinched.  "Touché, Miss Bell."  He took another swig of rum.  "You really do have a most terrible talent for saying that which causes the most pain."

"I've had many years to perfect it."

"Why?" he demanded.  "What kind of woman are you, that you would take the time to perfect such a malicious skill?"

"I told you, Mr. Norrington: life is hard for women without men," she replied icily.  "It's a sad truth, but that makes it no less difficult for women on their own.  We had no one, and I had to learn to protect myself as best I could.  I cannot wield a sword or a pistol, I have no father, no uncles, no brothers, and I'll be damned before I become anyone's whore.  That leaves me hexes and words.  I am so very sorry that my methods do not meet with your approval," she sneered scornfully.

James was surprised, and a little taken aback.  It appeared that Miss Bell was actually angry.  It was the first real emotion he'd seen unabashedly displayed on her face.  There was no façade now; her black eyes were burning, and her pale face had twisted into a snarl, and two spots of red sat high on her flushed cheeks.  And if he'd ever doubted her somewhat uncanny connection to the winds, he didn't now—even above the din in the tavern he could hear the wind whistling through the streets.

Perversely, he felt glad for it.  After feeling her darts make purchase in his battered heart all evening, he was glad at least one of his shots had found its mark into her thin, bony little chest.  "Don't like being judged, I see," he remarked lightly, pouring another mug of rum.

"By the likes of you?  Hardly," Miss Bell snarled.

"Why so touchy?" he taunted.

"Tell me about Elizabeth," she shot back. James winced.  Miss Bell nodded.  "You see, Mr. Norrington," she commented quietly, barely audible above the din, "we all have gaps in our armour."

He pondered for a few moments.  "Why show me?" he asked after taking another swig straight from the bottle.  "Why show me this 'gap in your armour'?"

Miss Bell shrugged her thin white shoulders.  "Thought I'd even the playing field," she replied nonchalantly.  "Otherwise it isn't any fun."

"I'd hardly call it even," James snorted.  "You seem to hold all the cards."

"I do hold all the cards," Miss Bell replied smugly.

James felt his hand twitch with the urge to slap that conceited little smirk right off her pointed face.  However, as had earlier been observed, he was not the sort of man to strike a woman, no matter how vexing she be.  So he did the next best thing.  "You sound like Jack Sparrow."

That did it.  The smirk fell right off her face—but to James' vast surprise, it was replaced by laughter.  Miss Bell actually laughed.  Her mirth was swift, like the wind through the trees, and tinkled like the tiny bells around her neck, and passed like an afternoon shower.  But he had seen her laugh—had seen it, and knew such a thing occurred.  "Touché, Commodore."

Then, surprising him again, Miss Bell picked up the untouched tankard of rum in front of her and took a surprisingly hearty swig.  Apparently such strong spirits did not agree with her, since her face twisted in disgust and she started coughing the minute the rum went down.  "Had to wash my mouth out, if I was beginning to sound like Sparrow," she wheezed in response to his confused expression.

"Rum's the drink for it," James agreed, raising the bottle in toast.  He'd long since forsaken the use of a cup.

"Why are you drinking, Mr. Norrington?" Miss Bell inquired after a moment, as though she hadn't pondered it before.

He smiled bitterly, and replied honestly, "To forget."

"Forget what?  Elizabeth?  Why should you wish to forget her?" Miss Bell queried, sounding sincerely bemused.  "You love her."

"And she loves me not.  Nor shall I ever see her again.  I trust you can comprehend my pain now?" James snapped.

She shrugged.  "Comprehend, if not emphasize.  Love is, thankfully, one storm I've managed to avoid." Then she laughed again, but this was not a laugh of bells and breezes, but one of bitterness.  "After all, it makes idiots out of even the most sensible of people."

"Cheers," James agreed glumly, lifting the bottle.

He paused when Miss Bell's spidery white fingers rested on his as he moved to drink.  They were cool and airy—he could barely feel her touch, though he saw her hand right there on his.  Lowering the vessel, he raised his eyebrows, trusting that she'd read the wordless query.

"You can't drink it all away, you know," she told him, her black eyes were fixed to his with a quiet intensity.

"They can," he said, gesturing to the other inhabitants of the pub with his free hand.

"You're not like them," Miss Bell replied with curious gentleness.  "She's imprinted on your soul, Commodore, and all the rum in the Caribbean can't erase her.  Only you can do that.  And not like this.  All you're doing is destroying yourself slowly."

James was deeply baffled by this turn of events.  The crow's voice had softened until it was more like molasses, and the harsh glitter in her black eyes was replaced by something more like candlelight.  He opened his mouth to speak, but realised he didn't really know what to say.  So he closed it again.

Miss Bell smiled—yet another new smile.  This one was rueful and amused, and caused a faint glimmer to dance through the depths of her black eyes.  "But you're not ready yet, I see.  Nevertheless, please don't drink yourself to death this night.  I still have need of you," she reminded him smoothly, removing her hand from his and standing in one swift movement.

Then she curtsied gracefully, skirts and cloak floating around her as she said, "By your leave, Mr. Norrington," before vanishing back into the chaos of the bar and out the door.

The former commodore wasn't sure what to think about all of this—about any of this, actually.  So he didn't bother.  He muttered something to himself about bloody witches, and drank himself into the oblivion he'd been awaiting all evening.


	7. Stella Tempestarum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a storm and some unpalatable truths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the memories... 
> 
> _A/N: The long awaited chapter 6! And I know how long it's been, but I'm not apologetic. December (and the first part of January) was completely consumed by my sojourn to France (Rennes and Paris), Spain (Madrid and Barcelona), and Italy (Rome, Florence, and Venice). Then I moved back into Oxford and started another term in which I have one more class than everyone else in the programme because I'm a masochist and wanted to try my hand at advanced stained glass. Then, after that term was over, I somehow stumbled into a relationship with a boy I adore, and to whom I gave most of my spare time._
> 
> _I trust you can all understand the delay._
> 
> _Anyway, this is another one of those conversational interludes that was terrible fun to write. Most of it is just Stella thinking, but since she's still a solitary creature and has really only talked to herself for the past couple of years, she does that a lot._

The next morning, as she reflected upon the previous night's conversation, Stella had a feeling she'd thoroughly confused the current object of her attention.  To tell the truth, she'd confused herself.  She didn't make a habit of being kind to anyone, let alone to people who'd insulted her and whom she'd needed to insult back.

Still, she had to give it to him: Former-Commodore Norrington was made of stern stuff.  Quite against her will, she was impressed with him.   She'd been pulling out her most disconcerting tricks since the moment they'd met, and not once had he run.  Not once had he slunk away in defeat—indeed, most of the time he merely glared at her with those icy green eyes and sent back some barbs of his own.

Take last night: she'd taken the most intimate information she could see and crafted it into arrows which hit their marks in the most tender part of his heart.  But instead of backing down, Mr. Norrington had stiffened his spine and replied, pressing until he found something to craft into arrows of his own.

There was indeed something to be said for British education and military discipline: they occasionally produced men with steel spines and iron guts who could meet her head-on without flinching.  Unfortunately, said men were usually steel-skulled as well, and lacked a single iota of sense.

Norrington, however... Norrington seemed to be in a category all his own.  If he did turn out to have a brain with his steel spine and iron guts, she might actually be inclined to respect him.

She was, after all, already inclined to like him.

That was odd in itself.  Stella generally didn't like people.  Since she had the dubious talent of being able to see into their souls, she could always instantly tell what sort of individuals they were.  For the most part, she was consistently disappointed.  The world was entirely too full of scoundrels, scallywags, gits, prats, tarts, whores, and all other manner of unpleasant people—and she had known this from a very early age.

However, every so often she would run across a person whom she liked, despite being able to see every bad quality about them.  Tia Dalma was one; strangely enough, Jack Sparrow was another.  This Mr. Norrington was apparently the third.

And even without the indescribable liking that came upon her occasionally, Mr. Norrington was a decent sort.  For one, he was polite and well-bred, with the instinctive courtesy of the higher-born that Stella had so missed during her years on Tortuga.  He was intelligent, honourable, and generally a good man without being as naïve and insipid as William Turner the younger.

And he had the most fantastic green eyes she'd ever seen.

Stella absently took a sip of tea, then choked slightly when she realised it had gone cold.  Shaking her head, she decided she'd been pondering Mr. Norrington far too much.  He wasn't ready to take her off the island yet, and until he was, she really oughtn't be wasting so much of her time thinking about him.

"Get your head on straight," she told herself sternly as she went to wash the dishes.  "You've still got your own life, and if Mr. Norrington wants to drink himself into the muck of the streets, that's none of your to-do.  You don’t even know his first name, for heaven’s sake.  You've got three charms and a poultice to make, and you're running low on westerly winds.  Just because he's here doesn't mean you can neglect your work.  So get to it, my girl, and leave that man to his own devices."

And she did.  She kept mostly to her secluded house for the next three days, weaving spells and catching winds for her customers.   Her yellow dress needed some mending, the orange tree out back had a few more ripe fruits, and she was running low on palm oil; these and other such domestic chores occupied her time as she tried to fall back into the pattern of life she'd had before... before.  And if her thoughts occasionally wandered in the direction of the port town to the north... well, it was only natural to wonder if her pet navy-man was still alive.  The erstwhile officer probably wondered about her, as well—that was what happened when people were bound together by Fate's indescribable whims.

Even if they didn't want it to.

At least, Stella assumed Mr. Norrington didn't want to wonder about her, or think on her, or have much to do with her in general.  She knew that he found her disturbing; most people did.  She knew he didn't like her; few people did.  She knew she'd offended his pride upon their first meeting, and had done nothing to endear herself since; she never did.

Thus, she was fairly surprised when, five days after their last meeting, Mr. Norrington actually sought her out.

She'd planned to spend the day alone, as usual.  There were no appointments, and when she'd made herself tea last night the leaves told her that there would be no visitors at the house for another two days.  She knew there was no one coming.  But still something nagged at her, saying that she would have company this day.

Assuming "company" meant the storm that was blowing through, Stella shrugged the premonition off and made the walk to her favourite storm-spot: a little peninsula about three miles west of the port, where the rocks jutted out to sea, unshielded by land or trees.  As far as she knew, no sailors bothered with that part of the island, due to the aforementioned rocks; it was completely hers.  But she only came there when the storm promised to be especially exhilarating, due to the rather difficult trek through land alternatively swampy and stony to get to it.  But the end result was ultimately worth it.  When she went to the very point of the rocky outcropping, the overhanging vegetation would vanish from her peripheral vision, until it was only herself, the sea, and the sky.

Clad in nothing but a worn white shift and her voluminous black cloak, Stella made it to the tip of the point just as the first sheets of rain descended and the wind picked up.  The wind recognised her as its own, and several zephyrs broke from the main gusts and wound around her like contented cats, pulling her hair free from its braids and winding her cloak and skirts around her legs, before whirling off, greetings bestowed, into the maelstrom brewing northwest of the island.  The light dimmed as the ominous grey clouds rolled across the ocean towards the island, while flashes of lighting and distant rumbles of thunder accompanied the sweeping sheets of rain.  There was a sudden still at the coast, just before the darkest line of clouds intersected with the line where sea met sand.

And Stella laughed as the storm broke over her head.

The wind and water lashed her body, and swept away everything but Stella.  Black Stella, the witch of Tortuga; Miss Bell, the proper young lady; and even Nell's bastard—all fell away with the advent of the storm, and all that was left was Stella, who was only one step away from being a storm herself.

She threw up her arms and embraced the tempest, and the tempest reached down and enveloped her.  The rain poured down, soaking through layers of fabric, until Stella was soaked to the skin.  The deluge was compounded by the rolling waves, which thundered into the shore and crashed around her, drenching her legs in saltwater.  She could feel every inch of her skin, stretched too tight over the power within her that wanted so badly to burst her body apart and truly become one with the storm above her.

Perhaps one day, the winds would actually lift her off her feet and carry her away into the skies. Perhaps one day when nothing tied her to the ground they would collect their companion and bring her away with them.  Perhaps one day the inhabitants of Tortuga would find nothing left of Black Stella but a casing of pale skin and a laugh like black coffee echoing on the breeze.

But not this day.

The storm eventually passed, as all storms do. It spent its fury over Tortuga, and rumbled off into the distance to gather speed and spend itself anew over the island of Hispaniola.  In the wake of its departure, Stella ceased to become one with the storm, separated from its fury by a thin layer of skin, and was left as a sodden girl perched on an outcropping, arms raised toward the heavens as the waves lapped her feet.

Trembling slightly, Stella lowered her arms and absently brushed away a strand of black hair the rain had stuck to her cheek.  The sun was beginning to peer out from the patchy clouds left in the wake of the storm.  She turned to her right, and regarded the retreat of dark clouds, still flickering faintly as the lightning danced within them, before lifting her shaking arm and pointing.  The clouds shifted, and a rainbow streaked across the sky.

Stella remained on the tiny rocky outcropping until the chill from her wet clothing made her shiver, even in the heat of a Caribbean afternoon.  Then she carefully picked her way back towards _terra firma_ , feeling quite pleased with life in general.

...At least, until a voice came from the palm trees to her left.

"I don't understand you."

Stella startled so badly she stumbled and nearly pitched face-first into the ocean.  Thankfully, she was still so charged from the storm that the winds quickly swirled around her and prevented such a spill, but her face burned red at being seen so undignified.  Furthermore, she was well aware of how she was—or wasn't—dressed, clad in nothing but waterlogged undergarments with her loose hair plastered to her neck and arms.  She felt a spike of irrational irritation at herself for not noticing his presence, and an even more irrational one at him for seeing her this way.  Thus, the glare she turned on the man could probably have peeled paint.

"I'm not surprised," she sniffed.

He stepped out from beneath the palm fronds, slightly damp and rather scraggly, and raised an eyebrow at her.  Stella felt foolishly perturbed—that was her expression!  "Is that meant to be some sort of commentary on my mental faculties?"

"Take it as you will," she shrugged, hopping off the last rock and onto the sandy beach.

Norrington walked out to meet her, and they stood together on the coast, where the sand mingled with the grass.  Stella was soaked through—now a much less impressive personage, with her too-large cloak dragging the wet sand and swamping her tiny figure and her glossy black hair sopping wet and tangled.  Neither was the naval officer a very impressive personage himself, now that the rich blue of his uniform was dulled by dirt and mud, the gold brocade coming off, and—

"Is... is that a wig?" Stella inquired incredulously, peering up at the curious white matted... thing... sandwiched between his head and his hat.

A slight flush was seen through the dirt on his unshaven cheeks.  "Yes," he muttered.

"What possible reason could you have for wearing a wig in a thunderstorm?" Stella demanded.

"What possible reason could you have for standing outside in a thunderstorm?" Norrington retorted, glaring.  "You could've been struck by lightning or swept away in the waves."

Stella snorted.  "Hardly.  The storms know me," she scoffed.

Norrington looked confused by this for a moment, before comprehension dawned and replaced his baffled expression with one of vexed resignation.  "Ah yes.  Your magic."

"Call it a gift, more like," Stella chided, grinning before she could stop herself.  "You're just jealous you don't have one."

He looked at her strangely, as though he'd never seen her before.  Actually, Stella pondered, pale cheeks flushing slightly, he never had—at least, not like this.

Eventually, Norrington shook his head (and Stella watched in horrified fascination as the queue of the wig, looking like a dead mouse tied with a black ribbon, swayed against his neck).  "I don't understand you."

"You said that already," Stella observed, sliding a foot out of her slipper and wiggling her toes in the damp sand.

"It doesn't make it any less true!" Norrington insisted.  "You're completely incomprehensible!  One minute you're insulting me, the next you're being kind—or at least your approximation of it.  You're normally as cold as ice and hard as stone, and now..." he trailed off, and just looked at her.

Stella followed his eyes, down to her wet hair, the sodden cloak, the nearly-transparent white shift, and her bare foot.  She merely shrugged, and said, "I enjoy storms."

"You would," Norrington muttered darkly.  "You're like the damn ocean."

"Hardly.  I'm a creature of the sky, Mr. Norrington," Stella replied nonchalantly, bending down to pick up her slipper.  "Not that there's much difference, really."

"What?"

"Not much difference between the sea and the sky," Stella repeated.  "Think on it.  The tides of the sea change like the direction of the winds, storms rock the ocean as waves rock the land."

"One will drown you," Norrington pointed out.

"And lightning could easily strike you dead," Stella retorted.  "And a storm can swamp you just as easily as the sea.  Ever encountered a hurricane?"

Norrington's immediate descent into melancholy and memories hit her in the face like a slap of sea water, and tasted bitter salty like the sea as well.  Stella immediately assumed he had encountered such a storm before, seeing images of darkness and death in his thoughts, overlaid by the coppery tang of desperation.

"So you do know," she murmured.  "The sky can be easily as furious as the sea."

The ex-commodore favoured her with another of his heavy, unhappy smiles which caused a tiny part of her shrivelled heart to ache in compassion.  "After meeting you, Miss Bell, well do I believe it."

Stella smiled.  "Flattery will get you everywhere, Commodore," she told him, kicking off her other shoe and walking back towards her home.  She knew without seeing that Norrington would follow her—he'd followed her here, after all.  Then she frowned and glanced back at him as something occurred to her.  "How did you find this place?"

"I followed you."

"Obviously.  How?  The walk is rather... arduous."

"When I lost sight of you, I followed sound."  At Stella's uncomprehending look, he gestured to his neck.  "The bells," Norrington explained, indicating the ever-present string of bells chiming around her neck.  "And I know that the walk—or trek, rather—is arduous.  Why come to such an out-of-the-way location merely to be rained on?"

"I like it," Stella said lightly.  "It makes me happy."

Norrington looked dubiously at the location.  "Is that why you're so... oddly cheerful?" he inquired delicately.

"Yes.  Well, that and the storm."

"I fail to understand how you enjoy being drenched to the bone."

"You fail to understand many things about me."

"Then perhaps my dread lady would be so kind as to explain them?" Mr. Norrington requested with faux sweetness.

"Ah, my dear Mr. Norrington, it would take far more than a three mile walk to explain every intricacy of my character," Stella replied in similar tones.

"Then answer me one thing—just one," he insisted intently.

The intensity lurking in his voice perplexed her, and Stella focussed on him for a moment, wanting to know the source of the feeling which would drive him to seek her out.  Again she knew the darkness and the fury of the hurricane, the death of British soldiers, and one word: Dauntless.  All of it was overlaid by a desperation to catch Jack Sparrow.

She quickly landed at an answer: in his desperation to catch Jack Sparrow, for whatever reason, Norrington had led his ship through a hurricane, and floundered.  Clearly, he was still carrying guilt for the incident.  But she wasn't entirely sure what he wanted of her.

"Only one thing?" she queried lightly, ducking under a palm frond and trying to stall for time while she figured out the question to which he was so intent on having answered.  "Perhaps you don't know this, Mr. Norrington, but it is generally considered unwise to make such ultimatums.  Sooner or later, you'll need my counsel again, and it would be such a shame if you limited yourself to one question."

"I think I find your modesty the most charming thing about you," Mr. Norrington muttered sarcastically.  Then, raising his voice, he amended, "Very well, Miss Bell.  In this encounter, I seek the answer to a query, but reserve the right to ask further questions."

"Consider the right reserved," Stella agreed.  "And what form of currency shall your payment take?"

"Payment?"

"Of course."

"You're going to charge me for asking a question?"

"Of course not.  I'm going to charge you for my answer."

"Why?"

"Because the questions I answer always involve the use of my powers.  The use of my powers is a commodity, ergo I request money or goods for their application," Stella explained coolly as she leaped over a small stream.

Norrington followed her, leaping somewhat more awkwardly and nearly landing himself in said stream.  Stella had a feeling he had already been drinking heavily, despite being quite early in the day, and felt a slight pang of worry she quickly squashed.  If he wanted to drink himself into a stupor, it was none of her business.

"If my question does not involve the use of your powers, do I still need pay you?" he asked.

Stella pondered this for a moment.  Then, in a fit of generosity (since she was in such a good mood), she said, "No.  I'll consider it a personal conversation and outside the boundaries of business."

"My thanks, Miss Bell."

"I'm sure.  Your query, sir?"

"You sell wind, yes?"

"In essence," Stella confirmed warily.  She still wasn't entirely sure where this line of questioning was to lead, but a niggle at the back of her mind warned that it wasn't going to end well.

"To anyone who asks?"

"To anyone who can pay, more like."

Norrington hurried to her side, and put a grimy hand on her arm, pulling her to a stop as he turned her to face him.  Stella allowed his touch, looking confusedly up at him as the power in his manner scorched her sixth sense, as though she'd stood too near a fire.  His passion was burning, and she still didn't know what he wanted.

"Answer me this, then, Miss Bell," Mr. Norrington asked, keeping a tight grip on her damp sleeves.  "Do you sell wind to Jack Sparrow?"

And suddenly, Stella knew.

"Yes," she said simply.

The hands on her arms tightened.  "Why?"

"Because he can pay."

"Don't you know what he does?  He's a pirate—a lawbreaker, a brigand and a thief."

"He's better than some who sail these waters, and you know it."  She couldn't believe she was standing here defending Jack Sparrow.

An ugly look spread across Norrington's stubbly face, full of anger, bitterness, and a loathing so strong he was ready to drown in it.  It changed his eyes from clear jade hue into a hard, poisonous green.  His grip on her arms was so tight that Stella knew she'd have bruises before sundown, and he shook her slightly.

"Then it's your fault," he accused her venomously.  "It's because of you that Sparrow was able to escape, because of you that my life was ruined and I’m living among pirates in this place.   You sold him wind, and he used it to escape!  If not for you, I'd have caught him.  I'd have caught him, and I'd still be Commodore—not wallowing with the filth of the Caribbean."  And it was clear from the way he looked at her and the tones in his voice that he considered her to be part of that filth.

"Liar," Stella spat back, indignant at the implication.  "You blame me because I'm convenient, but you know where the blame truly lies.  Pushing it onto my shoulders won't make the weight any less upon—"

"If you dare mention Elizabeth—" Norrington interrupted threateningly.

Stella halted him with a disdainful laugh.  "The only one who's speaking of Elizabeth is you, Mr. Norrington," she sneered.  "I was going to remind you that the blame for your fall belongs to you, and no other."

"You permitted him to sail away whenever I got close to him.  You interfered with something in which you had no part," he snarled.  "You're worse than a whore, Black Stella.  You sell something that ought not be sold to men who dishonour it."

_‘You need him alive_ ,’ Stella reminded herself as her hands automatically clenched into fists, her fingernails digging into her palms.  The languid breezes which had been wafting around since the storm ended immediately picked up, and blew angrily past the two people standing on the path as Stella poured her anger into the air to keep herself from unleashing it upon the man before her.

"You're a coward, Norrington," she spat through clenched teeth, when she was sure that the words from her mouth would be something other than a curse.  "All you're doing is running from the responsibility which so rightfully belongs to you.  So vent your spleen on me, if it makes you feel better.  Unload your bile, call me a whore, and have your empty victory.  But in the dark reaches of your soul, you'll know that it's still your own fault, and it will remain as bitter as bile."

"You gave him the winds," he accused.

"And you were the one who thought it'd be a good idea to chase him through a hurricane!" she snapped in return.  "Don't blame me because you made a foolish decision.  Or foolish decisions, rather," she added cruelly.

She leaned closer, ignoring the ache in her arms, feeling nothing but the roaring desire to make him as angry as he’d made her.  "You could've had him before it began," Stella hissed quietly.  "You could've ignored them, been deaf to their pleas, and clapped him in irons before he fell over the wall.  Then you would've had something for your superiors, something that they'd believe.  You could've stopped it then, but because you loved her, you let him go."

Norrington's hands went rigid, before turning slack and falling away to hang limply at his sides.  Stella stepped back once he released her, wanting to rub her throbbing arms but unwilling to show weakness.  Then she dug deeper into his mind, squashing the compassion that wanted to bloom at the sight of his miserable countenance with the reminder of the epithets he'd flung.  He'd learn not to bait her before she was done with him!

"And you could've halted it after that, as well," she went on relentlessly, taking the images she pulled from his soul and crafting them into finely-sharpened projectiles.  "You could've listened to your lieutenant, could've stopped before Tripoli, could've stayed away from forces of nature greater than anything men make.  But you didn't—pride drove you on, and you let it blind you to the truths of things.  Pride goeth before a fall, ex-Commodore, and so it went before yours.  So before you start blaming me, or Sparrow, or Elizabeth, best take a look at yourself."

She whirled and began to storm angrily down the path, but before she could go too far, his quiet words halted her.  "I know."

She turned, damp cloth swishing wetly around her legs.  The wind was still anxious and uneasy with her anger, and blew erratically around them.  Batting a strand of drying hair away from her eyes, Stella stared back at the dirty, drunken man staring off into the forest as though it could take him away from the nightmare his life had become.

Norrington remained where she'd left him, hands clenched.  "I know," he repeated.  "I know the majority of the blame rests solely on my shoulders.  I bear that weight every day.  But—damn you, Stella!—you bear a measure yourself!" he shouted, turning to glare at her.

"I do what I must to survive, Norrington," she replied icily.

"Dog-eat-dog world, eh?" he said bitterly.

"You always knew that it was," she replied pitilessly.  "And you're learning still more, where you are now.  You're not at bottom yet, Mr. Norrington, though you think you are.  There must always be depths to which a man is unprepared to sink, a level to which he knows he must not go.  For if he sinks below that, he knows that it will be the end of him.

"You blame me for selling winds, for aiding pirates.  You call me a whore for it.  But I'm not.  A whore would be the lowest I could go.  I'm not there—yet.  But could I not sell winds, I would have to turn to selling myself to survive.  And that is the absolute bottom; should I sink to that, I won't be Stella any longer, and there would be nothing more for me to do but die," she explained detachedly. "One day you will understand, Mr. Norrington, understand what it is to find the line you know you must not cross.   However, until that day, I believe we have nothing more to say to each other on this topic, or any other involving the manner in which I make my living.  Good day," Stella finished icily, before turning to return home.

She had almost reached the bend in the path when the soft breezes carried his voice to her ears.  "I was only trying to do the right thing.  Why did this happen to me?" Norrington asked quietly.

Stella didn't turn.  "Bad things happen to people who don't deserve it," she replied blankly, reaching up to finger the string of bells hanging around her neck.

There was a moment of silence, before Norrington spoke again.  "I hate you," he announced.

A faint, bitter smile crossed Stella's face.  "No, you don't," she corrected.  "You hate yourself, and it just happens to spill out onto everything around you.  Oh, you're angry with me—of that I have no doubt.  But hatred..."

She smiled again, viciously. "You haven't yet learned how to hate, Mr. Norrington.  You have much, much further to fall."


	8. Stella Indutiarum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a detente is reached.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _A/N: And now we’re onto chapter 7, which was written... well, some of it was actually written on a train to Scotland, and some was written on a train back to London, and then it was finished back in ye olde Estados Unidos. So yes. I've returned, reluctantly, to the land of my birth. Expect more chapters in the future, since school is over until September. :D_  
> 
> _So yeas! This is one of those lovely conversational interludes, which is basically just a springboard onto something else. In it, there are some more fun discussions and snarking._  
> 
> ...I actually missed that train to Scotland the first go-around.

"Wake up, Mr. Norrington."

James cracked an eye open, and then shut it immediately, groaning as the sunlight assaulted his retinas.

"Do shut up.  You brought this situation on yourself.  Although I must attest to a certain measure of awe—I had thought previously that consuming rum in that quantity would certainly be fatal."

Damndamndamn.  Why was it that Stella Bell was always finding him at the lowest moments of his life?  And it was her; while he couldn't be certain where he was, what time it was, or how much time had passed between his last memory and now, he was entirely certain that was Bell's voice.  No one else had the same polished accent with undertones of sneering disdain and biting sarcasm.  Would it kill her to at least pretend that she didn't hate everyone in the world?

"Oh, belt up, woman," James mumbled, turning towards the wall.

"Now really, Mr. Norrington, is that any way to speak to the person who saved your life... again?"

Cracking one bleary eye open to glare in the direction of the voice, James ground out through clenched teeth, "I didn't ask to be saved."

"Noted.  I'll just leave you to wallow with the pigs next time, then?  Even if you are face-down in muck and likely to drown?"

James grunted, and scratched at his neck, feeling dried mud flake off his skin.  "Would it matter if I said yes?"

"Truthfully?  Not much.  The state of affairs remains the same.  Your death is not part of it."

"Even if I wish to die?"  More dried grime flaked off his skin.

A sharp smile.  "You don't—not really."

Rubbing his dirty face tiredly, James straightened up from his prone position on Stella's floor and regarded the skinny woman sitting in the chair in front of him.  "Have you any idea how utterly frustrating you are?" he asked bluntly.

"I have an idea of how utterly frustrating you find me," Stella replied lightly, placing a spindly finger on her chin.  "And I know that you only find me so because you're unused to being in close proximity with someone of my talents."

"I assure you, there are plenty of other reasons why I find you frustrating," James sneered.

Black eyes narrowed.  "I find you to be quite frustrating yourself, you know."

"Why?" James snorted.  "It's not as though I'm nosy, or abrasive, or arrogant, or rude.  It's not as though I threaten you, or interfere where I'm not wanted, or truck with your worst enemy, or use memories and feelings which I ought not know about merely to hurt you, or... or... or take you to my house even if you don't want to go—"

"You don't have a house," Stella noted.

"That's hardly the point!"

"Ah yes, the point being that I'm a terrible person?"  She shrugged.  "Perhaps I am.  But I wouldn't need to be so terrible to you if you would stop wallowing in self-pity and regret."

"And there's the crux of the matter, Madam," James said tiredly, running a hand over his face.  "You have no right to dictate my behaviour.  If I want to wallow, I may; I'm a grown man, and my life is my own.  Perhaps our futures are connected somehow, perhaps we have some mystical bond which makes you feel you have the right to meddle in my life.  I don't know, I can't sense it the same way you can.  And since I cannot, as far as I am concerned, you have no right to order any part of my life, or to be beastly simply to change my actions.  You're not my mother, my wife, or even my friend.  Please, Stella, just... leave me be," he finished quietly.

Stella regarded him for a moment, before kicking out the chair across from her.  "Will you sit, sir?" she asked, her formal politeness at odds with the familiarity he had taken simply because he couldn't be bothered otherwise.  When he hesitated, she added, "Please."

James sat, wincing as the bruises on his body protested.  The past few days had not been kind ones.  Even with Stella's patronage, the denizens of Tortuga would occasionally take a swing or two—especially if they figured he himself started it.

"You are right," Stella said, once he was settled.  "In your view of the world, you're correct: I have no right to meddle.  I forget that, sometimes.  I've been... I haven't been in proximity to... those without my gift... for quite some time.  I forget what... how other people look at things.  I hope you will believe me when I say that I was—am—only trying to help you.  You were right when you said that our futures are connected; they are.  And seeing they are, I was trying to help you.  I don't want my future to be dependant on a bitter drunkard that spends his nights with the pigs."

Perhaps it was because he was hung over.  The filter between his brain and his mouth seemed to have vanished, since he never would have said anything had he been feeling less ill and unguarded.  "Always with the self-interest, Stella," James sighed sourly.  "For someone who claims to see souls, you really are terrible at dealing with people."

Stella glared.  "I do see souls," she replied stiffly.  "There's no 'claims' about it.  And I see yours," she added, looking him straight in the eye.  "I see your soul, and it's like seeing sunlight after years in shadow.  But you're letting the darkness and filth of this place cloud your soul, and I can't stand it," she ground out, slamming her hands on the table and standing abruptly.  "There is an extreme parity of souls like yours, and you're just letting yourself sink into the muck with the rest of us, ruining the light and the goodness and I can't stand it.  You despise me for trying to dictate your life? I despise you for so blithely ruining it!"

She was well and truly angry, James realised in wonderment.  Her face was flushed, her eyes were snapping, and her thin chest was heaving as the wind rattled the shutters violently outside.

"The path you're going down now will ruin you.  It will take every bit of your goodness and choke it 'till death.  And you don't even understand what a treasure it is!  To have that intrinsic goodness—you have it, Norrington!  That goodness, that solid core of decency that I see in so few people—you have it!  Why can't you understand? It's so rare, and you're just throwing it away," she said plaintively, fury suddenly leaking out of her as she sank back into the chair behind her.  "You're loosing that goodness.  You're just drinking it away on this island," she whispered.

Stella tried to laugh, but to James' vast surprise, it seemed more than a sob than a laugh.  "This island," she murmured.  "This island.  It takes all that goodness, until those that had it become as tainted as everyone here... or it kills them."

He watched, then, as she visibly gathered herself together and looked back at him.  "Perhaps I am a bad person, and this island is ruining me.  But I'll be damned before I let it ruin you too.  That's why, you know.  Why I... meddle.  Because you're drinking yourself away, and I don't want to see you go," Stella said simply.

James looked down, feeling quietly ashamed of himself.  "It makes the pain vanish," he found himself confessing.  "It makes me forget."

"Memories are both blessings and burdens, but they are ours to carry," Stella replied quietly.  "It is merely part of being human.  You cannot drink it away."

"I’m making a rather good go of it, though," he offered, smiling glumly.

"Yes," agreed Stella softly, "you are."

Green met black, and as they looked at each other, James and Stella seemed to come to a mutual agreement to speak no further on this subject.  Or rather, James thought wryly, Stella merely gave one of those ambiguous nods of hers and changed the subject.

"Dare I ask what precipitated last night's... dunking?" she inquired delicately.

James winced.  "I drank too much, said something... impolitic... and was soundly thrashed and thrown with the pigs," he shrugged with forced casualness.

"Any injuries you need dealt with?"

"No, just bruises."

A faint smile flickered across her face.  "Good.  I doubt you could afford it, anyway."

James looked at her oddly.  "You...?"

"Act as apothecary, surgeon, doctor, midwife, et cetera when needed," Stella finished.  "Yes.  Tortuga is not entirely pirates, and I help the families and unfortunates who come to me with injuries.  As did my mother before she... before."  Her black eyes beamed a keen look at him, taking in his dubious expression.  "I do have more... legitimate... occupations, Mr. Norrington.  If I could, I'd survive just on them—on healing, and hedgerow magic," she said quietly.

The unspoken, _But I can't_ , hung in the air, along with an implicit apology for... everything he'd thrown at her during their raging row a fortnight past—for selling winds to pirates, for selling them to Sparrow, for her part in allowing the rogue to escape.

James wondered if he should worry about this increasing ability to hear the things Stella left unsaid.

But he put that away to think on later, and merely nodded.  "I understand.  It is an honourable profession—even without the magic," he replied, offering the witch an implicit apology of his own.  "You do them a kindness."

"It isn't exactly kindness," Stella remarked sardonically, with the twist of her lips that James was more familiar with.

"What is it, then?" he asked dryly.

"Whatever it is that prompted me to pull you out of the muck and sit you on my formerly-clean floor," she retorted, raising an eyebrow and deliberately cutting her eyes to the patch of dried muck where James had lain until his awakening this morning... afternoon.

"Insanity, then," James quipped.

The quick, surprised look painted Stella's face at the same time her bell-like laugher breezed its way out of her lips.  Both were gone soon after, but James had seen, and remembered.  Stella had been human for that brief instant, had been a girl not much older than Miss Swann who was laughing at his dry wit the same way Elizabeth used to.

And he realised that Stella was right: he didn't hate her.  He wondered, indeed, if the girl had once been much more like Elizabeth, had once been sweet, spirited, straightforward, and strong-minded before something happened to change her into a bitter, angry, snarling young witch who seemed to loathe everything around her.  Could the same thing have happened to Elizabeth, had her life gone differently?  Had she been left alone on a pirate island?

Pirate...

Probably not, James admittedly mentally, quashing the urge to smile ruefully.  Elizabeth would have been thrilled to pieces to see real live pirates close-up.

"You're thinking about her again," Stella remarked, glancing at him.

Startled, James blurted the first thing that came into his head.  "I thought I told you not to do that!"

"Actually, you just requested that I refrain from meddling," Stella pointed out.  "I can't help what I see, Mr. Norrington.  Especially not when you're shouting it for all to hear."

"I wasn't shouting."

"To someone with my talents, yes, you were."  She tilted her dark head to the side and regarded him intently for a moment, though the unfocussed look in her black eyes indicated that she wasn't looking at his physical body.  "She's marked your soul very deeply... very, very deeply.  You carry her with you wherever you go, and I suspect that you will love her in some capacity until your dying day.

"I can see her," Stella murmured.  "She's very lovely."   Then a slight smile quirked her thin lips even as her eyes went even more distant.  "And very... fiery.  I can tell she has spirit from merely looking at an echo in your soul.  Good heavens, Mr. Norrington, I don't think you could've handled her—she'd have run roughshod over you.  It will take a very special man to handle your Elizabeth—or perhaps she'll be stronger than most women, and won't let herself be handled at all.  Oh, I do hope so," she breathed, a trace of giddy excitement painting her voice.  "That would make everything so much more interesting."

James immediately started thinking of anything else—of ships, swordplay, his wig, rats, rum, pirates, Jack Sparrow in a dress... anything to get Elizabeth out of his mind.  While he seemed to have arrived at a truce with the witch, he didn't want her to see Elizabeth.  Elizabeth was private, and that area of his heart was still incredibly tender.

Stella's eyes cleared, and she laughed again, shaking her head.  "You know, that isn't how it works," she informed him amusedly.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm not a mind-reader, Mr. Norrington.  Thinking of other things won't change what I see."

"Then how did you know I was thinking of other things?" he challenged.

"Because it was fairly obvious."

And suddenly it was like the sun rising over the ocean.  "You merely guessed!" James cried, feeling a grin spread across his face.  "That's what you do—you guess!"

Stella seemed unimpressed with his revelation.  "Not quite, sir.  I have abilities that do indeed provide me with concrete information," she corrected coolly.

He raised his eyebrow, asking for more information.  A twitch at the corner of Stella's lips seemed to hint at hidden amusement, and she explained, "I don't see everything that runs through your mind.  I get... impressions.  Sometimes I see images of things imprinted on your soul—hence my viewing of your lady—but it has to be a very strong impression for that.  Mostly it's... it's..."

"Yes?" James prompted.

She paused, huffing.  "You're very challenging, you know," Stella informed him sourly.  "I've never had to translate these things before, and it's quite difficult."

"My heart weeps for you," he replied flatly, rolling his eyes.

Stella sneered at him.  "Liar," she retorted.

A shrug.  "You'd know."

A smirk.  "I would.  But I wouldn't... it's... it's like looking through the water, estimating distances and depths and interpreting what they mean.  I see something, and I know what it means, and it's like knowing how far away the window is," Stella fumbled, tugging on one of her black plaits in frustration.

James assumed his expression was completely uncomprehending, since Stella took one look at him and sighed.  "You have no idea what I mean, do you?  Never mind, then," she dismissed, waving a hand languidly.  "Simply accept that I can see things about you, and it's not mere guesswork."

Then a mischievous grin curled her mouth and made her eyes glint strangely.  She leaned closer across the table, and her voice dropped, as though she was imparting a great secret.  "But a lot of it is just interpretation and educated deduction.  Shh—don't tell anyone!" she whispered, pressing a finger to her lips.

James was so surprised he just... started laughing. His chuckles sounded rusty and out of tune, and by the time he was done his stomach and face ached.  He recalled that he hadn't laughed in... days.  Weeks.  And somehow it was this completely humourless woman coaxing it out of him.

A glance up at said humourless woman revealed a smile—a real smile that reflected in her eyes and everything, even though the expression in those eyes was still all too knowing.  But it was the kindest expression he'd had turned his way in ages, and James found himself unconsciously returning the smile.

_At this rate_ , he thought ironically, _I'll start actually liking her one of these days_.

"Will you stay for supper?" Stella inquired politely.

"I'd be delighted," James replied.  And he would.  Despite the fact that his feelings towards Stella were only the barest shade of amiable, he hadn't eaten for nearly two days.

A quirk at the corner of her mouth indicated that perhaps Stella knew that, but she merely stood and suggested lightly, "Perhaps you might care to wash up, Mr. Norrington?  The well is just outside."

"Thank you," he replied, already heading for the door.  He paused there, and casually added, "My name is James."

Stella didn't pause.  "Well, James, don't forget to scrape the mud off your coat."

_Or perhaps not._


	9. Stella Stellarum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which James Norrington meets Stella's mother, and stars are read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is 2007 or 2008 at this point... when DMC came out, anyway. 
> 
> _A/N: And onto chapter 8. More dialogue here—although I promise, swearing on Norrington's sexy arse, that there will be actual action in the next chapter. 'Kay?_
> 
> _Also, SPOILERS!_  
> 
> _SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS! IF YOU AIN'T SEEN IT ALREADY (or if you're like me) DON'T READ FURTHER! (Of course, these spoilers are only in my little ramblies—the chapter itself is clean.)_  
> 
> _Funny, that I'm warning of spoilers when I haven't technically seen the movie yet. But I've read other peoples' spoilers—I wanted to know if what I suspected was true..._
> 
> _And it was! Oh NOES!_  
> 
> _They killed my James! WAAAHHH! That's so sad! Will's dad is an arse! An arse, I tell you! Poor James..._  
> 
> _Not that this changes anything but the very last chapters of this fic. Stella will not be happy. So now, I have to ask myself this question: canon, or not? I'm trying to keep this sort of a behind-the-scenes thing, like it could all happen but just wasn't shown. So do I want to keep that, or do I want to say "Hell with you, canon!" and bring back the Norrington?_
> 
> _Do let me know what you think when you review (hint hint)._  
> 
> In the end, I decided, "Hell with you, canon!" I don't think anyone was surprised.

"Good evening, Mother."

The sun was beginning to slant through the trees and cast long shadows as Stella sat down in the lush grass beside her mother's grave.  She arranged her voluminous grey-blue skirts and set a heavy basket between them.

Smiling, Stella took a deep breath.  "It's quite a pleasant evening, though we shall have another storm tomorrow.  And look!  Your orchids are blooming," she announced, brushing her hand over the flowers twining around her mother's last resting place.

She started tidying their surroundings, pulling tools and handkerchiefs out of the basket, picking the moss and the lichens out of the carved letters on the tombstone and polishing the stone until it gleamed.  As she worked, she continued to tell her mother about the recent happenings in and around their little house.  Mr. James Norrington came often into her narrative.

"...and he's so vexing, Mama!  He doesn't do anything, just wallows around and waits for Sparrow to show up so he can try and kill him.  Hardly a life," she sniffed.  Then she shook her head and smiled slightly at the faint reprimand from her mother.  "Yes, I know.  I did promise not to meddle in his life—and I haven't—but surely you can't grudge me my complaints?"

Her mother indicated only that she did, in fact, grudge the complaints.  They were getting repetitive.

Stella laughed.  "All right, I'll try and cease my laments regarding Mr. Norrington.  But I wish I could... I wish I had great-grandmother's foresight, and knew something about what was coming.  I want to know how I'll get off this island when the man meant to take me is so lost.  I want to know whether James has only future at all, or if he simply intends to drink himself to death.  When will Sparrow come?  That would help him, I think... or get him killed.  Perhaps they're the same thing, now, in his mind," she remarked contemplatively.  Then she sighed lightly.  "I just wish I could give him something—hope, resolve, anything.  All I can give him is wind, and he has no need of that."

There was nothing her mother could say to that, but merely a hint of a question.

"I know he annoys me," Stella added quietly.  "But he's still the best man I've known in years.  I rather like him, when he's not vexing me to no end.  He makes me think.  And he often displays wits nearly as sharp as your old knives," she laughed.

A breeze twirled around her head swiftly, tousling her loose black hair and bringing the distant sound of a voice.  Stella smiled swiftly, then turned to her mother.  "He's also coming this way now.  Probably drunk," she added disapprovingly.

She could almost hear her mother's delicate, flowery laughter in the flash of amusement.

"You can't possibly approve, Mother," Stella returned dryly.  "I remember—you kept me sequestered from everyone for the better part of two years when we first landed here."

Her mother's reply was lost as she noticed the ragged form of one James Norrington staggering along the path towards her home.  She watched him totter through the graveyard, and noted that he apparently didn't see her there in the fading light.  Eleanor Abernathy's grave was tucked far into the corner, nearer to the house and the stream than the rest of the dead.  Stella hadn't wanted her mother grouped with the rest of Tortuga's ruffians, even in death.

"I'm not at home, Mr. Norrington," Stella called as James made a beeline for her front door.

She then had the pleasure of seeing the once-Commodore startle like a skittish cat before fumbling at his belt for a sword that was obviously not there.  Of course, he got himself under control very, very soon after, but she still enjoyed seeing the lapse.

"Miss Bell," he greeted as he tromped through the grass to where she sat.  He paused when he realised she was seated comfortably next to a tombstone.  "I trust you are well this evening?"

"I am, sir.  And yourself?" she returned graciously.

"A little worse for wear, perhaps," he replied honestly.

Stella inclined her head.  He looked dirty and frazzled and peeved, so she understood why he sought her out here.  It was always quiet out by her home, near the graveyard and the foot of the mountains.

"You are, of course, always welcome here," she said lightly.  Then she gestured to the stone beside her.  "May I present my mother?  Mother, this is Mr. James Norrington, a gentleman from Port Royal.  Mr. Norrington, this is my mother, the late Mrs. Eleanor Abernathy."  At James nervous, wide-eyed expression, she added, "She's dead and you can't sense her, so you needn't bow or observe any of the normal courtesies.  It was more for Mother's sake than yours."

He still looked unsure and a little afraid, so Stella merely patted the grass beside her.  "Would you care to sit?"

Looking rather like an awkward colt trying to figure out its legs, Mr. Norrington sat on the ground beside her, folding his long limbs under him.  He stared at her mother's grave for a moment, then turned to glance at her.  "Can you speak to the dead?"

Stella met his eyes in surprise, hearing the actual fear in his voice.  "Of course not!" she replied.  "Very few people can, and I'm not one of them."  Understanding dawned.  "Oh, you don't understand.  My mother is not here—she's not a ghost or a zombie or suchlike.  I cannot hold a conversation with her... however much I should like to," she added bitterly.

"Then...?"

"All that's left of her is a fraction of what she was... an imprint, of sorts," Stella explained slowly, trying to put it into words he would understand.  "She's gone.  She's moved on.  But she left a little bit behind to look out for me—many people do the same thing when they die.  And because I am what I am, I can feel that little bit."

"It must be comforting," James remarked, relaxing even further.

Stella pondered this for a moment.  Yes, it was comforting to have a little, tiny bit of her mother around... but most of it the time it just hurt.  It was a reminder that all she had left was that tiny bit, that the best parts of her mother had vanished beyond this world.  So she replied quietly, "It both is, and isn't."

The quick, sympathetic look that flashed across his dirty face indicated that he understood.  Stella wondered if she shouldn't be worried about this rapport they seemed to be developing.

"The people of the town seem to remember her fondly," he noted, regarding the flower-decked stone solemnly.

"She was a kind, gentle woman," Stella agreed.

"Was she like you?" James inquired.

"I did just say she was a kind, gentle woman, didn't I?" Stella returned dryly.

A rusty chuckle burbled its way out of his mouth.  "I suppose," he admitted.  "I meant, did she have gifts like yours?"

"Somewhat like, and yet not.  She had no talent with the sky; instead, Mother healed people.  Sometimes she could just touch them, and they'd be well," she said.  Then her expression turned bitter.  "Fat lot of good it did her.  When the epidemic came, she was killed by it.  She could've healed anyone else, but not herself," Stella said harshly.  "Nell Abernathy, the great medicine woman, killed by a disease she'd healed repeatedly before."

James' green eyes remained on the tombstone.  "1718," he read.  "That was almost six years ago."

"Yes."

"How old were you?"

"Don't you know that it's impolite to ask a lady her age?  And I am a lady, Mr. Norrington, despite my dubious surroundings."  At his surprised—and somewhat incredulous—expression, Stella glared indignantly.  "I am," she insisted. "My father was a plantation owner on Antigua, and I was raised a gentleman's daughter."

"How in God's name did you end up here?" James asked flatly.

"A sequence of events involving several deaths and some pirates," Stella replied tightly.  This was a road she did not wish to traverse.

"Pirates?" he repeated darkly.

"Mother and I meant to land in Port Royal," Stella said quietly, remembering the empty ache of lost dreams and hollow regrets that never quite went away.  "Unfortunately, our ship was boarded, most of our things stolen, and we were put to land not far from here.  We made do with the best we had—and it wasn't much."

"When was this?"

"I was... I believe I was only fourteen, so it was 1713."

"That was before I came to the Caribbean."

"I was glad when you did.  Pity it was too late for Mother and I."

"For what it's worth, I am sorry."

"It isn't worth much, Mr. Norrington.  You weren't here.  You had no influence on events, and thus have no need for an apology—though I appreciate the sentiment."

James just nodded, apparently thinking intently on something.   "You were fourteen in 1713.  You were only seventeen when your mother died," he stated.

Ruthlessly suppressing both the sharp grief of her loss and the urge to snap something impolite at Norrington, Stella merely nodded and replied, "Yes."

"You've been alone for almost six years."

"Congratulations, Mr. Norrington.  You have mastered basic subtraction," she sneered.  At his offended expression, she added sharply, "I do not need your pity."

"And I wasn't offering it," he snapped in return.  "I was simply trying to understand how and why your social graces degraded so badly from the standard I'm sure they were held to in your childhood."

"Now you know," Stella sighed, knowing the truth of his words even as they rankled.  "Nine years on a pirate island, seven of which were spent almost completely alone.  It's a wonder I remember how to speak at all."

"Self-pity does not suit you," James informed her after a moment.

An eyebrow raise.  "Shall I point out the irony of that statement, or merely allow you to be a hypocrite?"

James favoured her with a tight, false smile.  "I'd prefer if you didn't."  As she opened her mouth, he quickly cut her off.  "Both.  Either."  Then he recalled what, exactly, she'd said.  "Wait..."

Stella started laughing—he was so ridiculous sometimes!  "Would you like to reconsider your answer?" she asked.  "Or perhaps you would prefer to speak on something else?"

"The latter, please," he requested, hardly bothering to mask the relief in his voice.

"Any suggestions?"

James pondered this for a moment, a slight line creasing his brow.  "Tell me about your family," he eventually decided.

Stella froze for one brief moment, feeling all the colour wash out of her face.  She wondered if James saw it, cutting her eyes nervously to his face, then relaxing slightly when she noted that he was still contemplating her mother's grave.  Slowly uncurling the fists that had automatically clenched in the material of her skirt, she pondered what to tell him.

"I come from a long line of witches," she began after a minute of silence, deciding that her foremothers were the safest topic of conversation.

"Witches?" he repeated dubiously.

"I'm allowed to call myself a witch.  You, however, are not," she returned primly.

"Of course," James drawled.  "How many... ladies of mystical talents are there in your family?" he inquired, hitting the euphemism for witch with a measure of sarcasm.

Stella shot him a quelling look.  "I am the fifth of the line which emigrated to the Caribbean," she announced proudly.  "Before, there were—and are, I suppose—many of my line in the Mediterranean.  But the line begins with Mirela o Washosko García, who fled from the Inquisition in Spain..."

She chronicled the history of her grandmothers, telling him of their powers and lives as the sun sank below the horizon and dusk settled on the graveyard.  And though she could tell James was interested, and focussed on her words in order to block out the knowledge that he was sitting in a graveyard with a woman he didn't like at night, the tale of Mirela's children was not the one he had been wanting to hear.

"...And now, there's me," she finished.  "And you're looking rather nervous, Mr. Norrington."

"I'm in a graveyard at night," he replied tersely.

"And you have nothing to fear," Stella said smoothly.  "Rest assured, James, there is nothing on this island worse than I."

The unused laugh made another appearance, and Stella felt strangely cheerful about that.  "I come here to stargaze," she added.  "In most places, there's too many trees overhead.  Here, in the graveyard, the sky is mostly clear.  Although what I wouldn't give for an observation platform," she muttered.

James made a noncommittal noise, and they sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the last light fade in the western sky as the stars began to twinkle overhead.  "I can't see the north star," he eventually noted, looking upwards.

"The trees are in the way.  In another hour or so, it will rise and be visible over the vegetation," Stella replied calmly.

"I didn't know you knew astronomy."

"My father taught me.  He was interested.  So interested that he wished to name me Vindemiatrix when I was born."

"Vindemiatrix?" James repeated sceptically.

"It's a star in Virgo," Stella offered.

"I know where it is," he snapped, turning to glare at her.  "But Vindemiatrix?"

"I know," Stella agreed, grimacing.  "Thank heavens my mother had more sense.  She told my father absolutely not."

James was still looking at her dubiously, but when she turned to him and arched an eyebrow, he simply shook his head and said, "You don't look like a Vindemiatrix."

"It is quite a large name for such a small person," Stella smiled.  "That's what my mother always said when it came up.  She said that if Father must name me after a celestial body, it ought to be something I could say.  Hence, Stella," she explained, a faint smile tugging at her lips.  Her parents had bantered about the issue of her naming many times.  She could still hear the echo of their beloved voices teasing each other in her memories.

_'Don't listen to your father, Stella.  He wanted to name you Vindemiatrix, after all,' Nell would whisper to her daughter whenever Father would tease them about their powers, like asking if they needed any eye of newt or toe of frog._

_'And what's wrong with Vindemiatrix?' Father would ask, sounding wounded and stuffy at the same time.  'It's a star—a bright, shining star, just like my sweet girl,' he'd reply, reaching out to tug on one of Stella's coal-black locks._

_'It's taller than she is, that's what's wrong,' Mother would point out, but she was always smiling._

_'She'd have grown into it,' Father insisted.  'Would you not, my little star?'_

_'But I don't like grapes, Papa,' Stella would always giggle._

_Father laughed with her.  'Then Stella ye be, my dear,' he would sigh.  'Stella nostrae.'_

"Stella, stellae," James quipped, supplying the first two declensions of the Latin and breaking Stella out of her memories.

"Stellae, stellam," Stella continued.

"Stella, stella," James finished.  "I didn't know you knew Latin."

"My father taught me."

"He seems an attentive parent.  Why isn't he here with you?" James inquired.

"He's dead.  He died, and that is why mother and I left Antigua," Stella replied shortly.  Edward Bell had been dead for nearly ten years; the pain had plenty of time to fade.  And it had, save for a quiet ache that would never vanish.  So she raised an eyebrow at him and asked tartly, "Are you satisfied now?"

James looked startled.  "I beg your pardon?"

"You were fishing for something.  Have you caught what you wish?"

"I'm only trying to understand," he protested stiffly, looking vaguely offended.  "You make it difficult."

"It's a painful subject," Stella replied coolly.  "Something I believe you already understand."

"Yes," James agreed warily, as though he expected her to start asking pointed questions about his own parents any moment.

And honestly, she considered it.  But Stella knew her mother wouldn't approve, and truthfully, James had done nothing wrong.  So she merely looked back up at the darkened sky and commented, "Altair is rising."

"Denebola is setting," James returned.

Stella raised an eyebrow.  "Denebola?" she repeated.

"Yes, Denebola," he answered irritably.  "It's a star in Leo."

"I know where it is," she snapped, echoing his earlier words.  "I was merely remarking upon the fact that it’s a curiously appropriate choice for you, given its meaning."

"And what does it mean, pray tell?" he inquired acidly.

"Denebola is a star of swift judgment, misfortune from the elements of nature, and makes its people noble, daring, self-controlled, and generous—traits, I believe, that describe you quite well," Stella explained tartly. "Either preferment or fall are credited to it, as well as a quarrelsome nature, with a liking for legal action. It could also mean that this star is the cause of very exciting events.  An apt description of your nature, and certain events in your life," she added.

"You mean a star I chose to mention, on a whim, says something about me?" he asked incredulously.

"It does," Stella confirmed calmly.  "You feel the pull of a certain star due to its influence in your life.  I only interpret it for you."

"Hmm," said James.  "What did you choose again?  Altair?"

"I did."

"And?"

"Altair is part of the constellation Aquila—the eagle, associated with the sky and thus appropriate for me for a variety of reasons," Stella began, recalling the descriptions she had memorised from the almanack during her early years on Tortuga when Mother refused to let her more than ten feet away from the house and wouldn't let anyone talk to her.  "Aquila is also said to give great imagination, strong passions, indomitable will, a dominating character, influence over others, clairvoyance, and a keen, penetrating mind."

"That describes you to a T," James muttered.

"Thank you," Stella replied sweetly, knowing full well he hadn't meant to be complimentary.  "Altair promises a rise in life and honours.   We try with sincere conviction to reach out for our aims with utmost will-power.  We will avoid nothing in order to achieve them.  Altair is good for advancement of lawyers and military men."  She paused.  "And since I am currently connected to you, this is a good thing for your future," she added.

"Truly?" James asked, looking at her in surprise.

"The stars don't lie," Stella replied simply.  "They can be misinterpreted, but they don't lie."  The smile was still on her face, though hidden by the darkness.  "It seems both our futures are optimistic... despite, oddly enough, coming from parts of the sky quite distant from one another.  I shall have to do a more thorough reading tomorrow," she murmured to herself.

"But you think it's encouraging?"

"Yes, I do," Stella replied slowly, still trying to assimilate the new knowledge the stars had given her, trying to recall what was rising, which was in whose house, and other factors for which she needed the almanack in order to accurately understand what the stars meant.  "Prescience is not my gift, James.  But I think—I believe—that our fortunes are on the rise."

James pondered this for a few minutes, still seated on the ground with his neck craned up to peer at the sky.  "They haven't got much further to descend," he finally commented.  "The only direction left for them to go is up."

She snorted.  "Things can always get worse."

It was almost completely dark in the graveyard, so Stella was left to imagine the flat, faintly amused expression on James' face as he remarked sourly, "You're such a cheerful woman, Stella.  I honestly don't know how my spirits get so low when you're around."

Stella just cackled.

They sat in the cool grass for another half-hour, looking at the stars.  James would occasionally ask about the astrological properties of a certain celestial body; Stella would tell him what she knew.  As the darkness grew deeper, the mosquitoes grew more irksome; though they didn't bother Stella as much, James kept slapping at his neck.

"Perhaps you would care to adjourn to the indoors?" Stella asked, watching him scratch irritably.

"How is it they don't bother you?" James asked.  The crescent moon was rising over the treetops, and it only just illuminated his eyes, which were narrowed and peering intently at her.

"Witch," was all she said.

He sighed.  "It must be a wondrous lovely thing to be a witch.  Never bothered by biting insects, able to terrify men at a glance, control over forces mortals are merely buffeted with..."

"I enjoy it," Stella replied mildly.

"Of course," James said, rolling his eyes.  Then he stood, brushing dirt from the seat of his breeches (for all the good it did, Stella noted wryly; his clothing was still caked in filth) before offering her a hand.

Stella reached up and took it, allowing the man to pull her to her feet.  His hand was calloused and rough, but his fingers curled around hers with a curious gentleness, taking care not to crush her more delicate hand.  The warmth of his skin nearly scorched her, and Stella unconsciously looked up to meet his green eyes in the pale moonlight.  He was so much taller than she, looking down at her with a faint, wry little smile playing about his lips.

She quickly dropped his hand and whirled around, bending to collect her basket, knowing that her face was flooding with colour.  Profoundly grateful that her blushing cheeks would not be visible in the pale light, she accepted the arm offered her and allowed herself to be squired back to her home.  By the time she pushed the door open and went to light the candles inside, her skin was no longer so flushed.

But she remembered the feeling, and mulled over it as she boiled water for tea.  Stella had never thought to guard against that—against love, and such emotional twaddle, of course.  But against... against sheer physical awareness?  And awareness of James Norrington, the filthy, angry, sour, ex-commodore?  Had someone told her of it even yesterday, she would have laughed aloud.

Nevertheless, there it was.  She had taken his hand, and suddenly been aware of everything—of the warmth of his hand, the roughness of his skin, the smile in his eyes, feeling every single inch of her skin, the way the blood pumped through her veins, the coolness of the air and the soft breezes wafting through the trees.  It was like she was standing once again in the midst of a storm, but instead of a storm, it was a man.

_It changes nothing_ , Stella thought savagely, gazing over to where the object of her desire was sitting casually at her table, sipping a cup of tea and rubbing his temples.  _He will take me off the island.  I will keep him alive until then.  There will be no attraction between us.  I will never fall in love with him._

_I will never fall in love with anyone, let alone James Norrington._


	10. Stella Pugnantis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a bar brawl and a rather lot of mud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N: Good times with chapter 9! Sorry it took so long to get out... it’s actually been sitting on my computer for the better part of a fortnight, almost done... but as it was, I got a job! A real job, with very strange hours, that left me mostly exhausted and brain-dead. That's why it took me so long to get around to actually finishing it! I'm sorry. :(_
> 
>  
> 
> _Another reason it took so long to write is that AWE buggered something up. Now I have no idea where Stella's going to be during that part of the trilogy. Does she stay out of it? Does she stick her nose in? I don't know. Where are you during AWE, Stella? I still haven't figured that out._
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> I remember that job... it sucked real bad.

James knew, when the pub went very silent for one brief moment, that Black Stella had entered the building.  If he strained his ears, he could just about hear the chiming of the little bells she wore around her neck.  He was three-fourths of the way through his first bottle of rum for the evening, and still had enough motor control to snag a chair from the table next to him, figuring that she'd come to speak with him.

He quickly spotted her, weaving through the crowd with her customary grace, making her way to the bar.  She was dressed in grey this evening, and wore a heavy bag slung over her shoulder out of which poked several rolled up papers.  Once she had secured her drink, she headed straight for his table.

Marvelling at her uncanny ability to find him wherever he was, James placed his hands on the table and stood to welcome her.  "Good evening, Miss Bell."

"Good evening, Mr. Norrington," she replied, and James fancied that there was a certain warmth in her tones as she regally sat herself in the chair.  "Drinking again?"

"As always," he shrugged, raising the bottle of rum.

"And not even using a vessel any longer—how delightfully uncivilised of you," she drawled, pouring herself a glass of what turned out to be red wine.

"What's in the bag?" James asked, nodding at the satchel she'd swung off her shoulder and placed on the floor.

"Many things," Stella replied vaguely.

He rolled his eyes.  "You hardly need play the witch with me, Stella," he said dryly.

"I thought I told you not to call me a witch," she returned, raising her eyebrows and taking a ladylike sip from her glass.

"I thought you might be persuaded to overlook it since I don't mean it in malice," James shrugged.  "It really is the simplest term for you."

"You could call me Stella," she suggested, smiling slightly.

"I already do that."

"Yes, but this time you have my permission."

"But it's not the same thing," he insisted.  "'Stop playing the Stella'?  You are Stella."

"And I am a witch."

"Not all the time.  Sometimes you're a witch, sometimes you're a lady with specialised talents," James said, gesturing with his bottle.

This statement caused Stella to set her glass down and turn her full attention onto him.  Her black eyes were full and liquid in the flickering light, reflecting both the candles on the table and the surprise in her flushed face.  It all made her seem... softer.

Yet her regard—and the ever-present remembrance of what she was actually doing when she looked at him like that—made him nervous.  "What?" he demanded gruffly.

"I'm... surprised you see the distinction," Stella replied slowly, still gazing intently at him.

"Surprised enough to tell me plainly what you brought in the bag?"

Laughing as she bent over to retrieve her things, Stella tossed the rolled up parchment onto the tabletop.  "I read your stars," she announced, tapping one of the rolls.

"And?"

She unrolled the chart in a swift, sweeping motion, moving it in front of him, and standing to lean over and point at various circles, arrows, and symbols.  However, in doing so, she unconsciously gave him an eyeful, straight down her dress.  "As you noted a few days back, Denebola is at the centre of your reading right now, and has the most influence.  It is in the house..."

Since he wasn't understanding a thing on the chart, his eyes were drawn to the expanse of her pale skin and the slight swell of her breasts.  The golden light made the flesh softly luminous, like a pearl in the sun—so different from the powdered and rouged skin of the whores whose wares he usually sampled.

"...and since Venus is moving into Sagittarius and Regulus rising..."

He really had no idea what she was saying.  Astrology was not among his oeuvre.  But one thing he did know: while he suspected that Stella knew he wasn't paying attention to her charts, if she knew what he was actually paying attention to, she would be quite unhappy.

Removing his eyes from Stella's petite breasts, James sat back and interrupted her recital.  "This is all very interesting and incomprehensible, Stella, but what does it mean?"

She sat back down, rolling her eyes and removing her breasts from James' line of sight.  "It means, my dear Mr. Norrington, that what I said two days past is correct.  Your fortunes are at a low ebb, but they will not remain so... hopefully."

"Hopefully?" James repeated dubiously.  "I don't like that addendum."

"Neither do I," Stella agreed, grimacing.  "Unfortunately, as it happens, you're in the same position I am."

"Which is?"

"Our fates are joined to that of Jack Sparrow," she replied, wrinkling her pointed nose.

"They're WHAT?!"

"I don't much care for it either, you know," she informed him sourly.  "But it seems that the rise or fall of your fortunes is dependant on how life treats Jack Sparrow."

James pondered this for a moment.  "What happens to my fortunes if I kill him?"

Stella smirked swiftly, then shrugged.  "I don't know," she admitted.  "Maybe things get worse.  Maybe things get better—maybe you're meant to kill him.  I honestly cannot tell you.  There's only so much I can know about you without knowing about Sparrow in turn."

"And I don't suppose knowing about Sparrow is as easy as just reading his stars?" James asked glumly, already knowing the answer.

"Of course not," Stella sighed, sounding just as gloomy.  "I'd need to have him in front of me.  Or at least know his birth date, or his star sign..."

"Which you don't."

"No."

"Can you discern when he'll next be here?"

"Not accurately, no."

"How about inaccurately?"

"Within the next year, Jack Sparrow will set foot on Tortuga again."

James pondered this.  "You're right, that is inaccurate."

"As I've told you, prescience is not my gift," Stella said, a hint of apology in her voice.  "However," she added, brightening, "I can try and tell you where he is right now, and thus we can estimate the time of his next arrive on Tortuga."

"How?"

"Common sense.  If Sparrow is anywhere in the Caribbean, you can bet he'll come to Tortuga sooner or later," Stella explained calmly, bending over to take five more rolls of parchment from her bag, along with a little black velvet pouch.

Whisking the star charts off the table, she replaced them with what turned out to be, cumulatively, a map of the world.  There was one of Europe, one of the Americas, one of China, another of China plus the Pacific ocean, and the last of Africa.

"This isn't the entire world," James noted.

"It's an approximation," Stella dismissed.  "What I haven't maps for, we guess."

"You know, Stella, the more I learn about you and your powers, the more I discover how large a part guessing plays in your calculations," James commented, helping her to roll out the maps and assemble them properly.

"If guessing wasn't a part of it," Stella returned tartly, shifting so that Singapore moved away from the Barbary Coast, "I'd be omniscient.  Not even Tia Dalma can get perfectly accurate results every single time.  It's an ability, like anything else."

"Who's Tia Dalma?"

"A very dear friend."

As he finished adjusting the maps (they had a vaguely world-like map, although the scale was off inasmuch that Europe was twice the size of Africa and they were missing massive chunks of the Indian and South Pacific), Stella opened the black pouch and tipped the contents out onto the table.  A variety of stones spilled out; black stones, white stones, grey stones—all polished to a high sheen.

The four grey stones were placed at the corners of their makeshift map, creating a rectangle even if the papers didn't make that shape on their own.  All the other stones were pushed to the side, save for one: a clear crystal hung on a tarnished silver chain.

"What are you doing?" James inquired, watching as Stella picked up the crystal and let it hang from her spindly fingers.

"We are going to scry for Jack Sparrow's current location," she replied, holding her hand over the maps.  The crystal dangled down over the surface, swinging calmly.

"We?" he repeated sceptically.

"Give me your hand," she commanded.

James complied, tentatively extending his arm out across the table.  Stella grasped it brusquely, and placed it on top of the hand which held the crystal.  Her fingers were soft and slight and cool, as always, and James wondered if the strange energy he felt where their skin was touching had anything to do with the magic they were apparently about to perform.

"Now concentrate," she ordered, jerking his attention back to the maps.  "Concentrate on Jack Sparrow."

"Should I close my eyes?" he asked as he watched hers flutter closed.

"If you wish.  It isn't necessary, though I find it helps me focus."

Giving a jaundiced glance to the buzzing activity around them, James shrugged slightly and closed his eyes.  He brought all his memories of Sparrow to mind—the drenched, cocky pirate who'd threatened Elizabeth; the brash, arrogant man who'd stolen _The Interceptor_ right out from under him; the calculating bastard who'd led him to the Isla de Muerte; the smug, loquacious escapee who'd slipped out of his grasp.  He remembered the dark, kohl-lined eyes; the tanned skin; the cheeky, self-satisfied smirk; the beaded and dreadlocked dark hair; even his swaggering, swaying gait.

And over all these memories lay the driving need to catch him, banked but still burning, and a smouldering hatred that burned like acid through his heart.

"I'll thank you not to crush my hand, Mr. Norrington."  Stella's sharp voice broke through his concentration.

James opened his eyes to discover that, while thinking of Sparrow, his hands had unconsciously clenched into fists—including the one pressed against Stella's.  His grip was tight enough that he could feel Stella's birdlike bones grinding together, and her pale face was tight with pain she wasn't otherwise showing.

He immediately let go.  "Forgive me."

Stella dropped the crystal and shook out her hand.  "Hopefully, with all that emotion poured into the wand, I should be able to locate him without any further contribution," she said, wincing.

"I am sorry," he insisted.

"I know.  Quite all right," she demurred, once again closing her eyes and dangling the chain from her fingers and letting it swing over the map.

James just watched.  His eyes darted from the swaying crystal, to the rowdy pub around them, to the dark crescent of Stella's eyelashes as they rested against her white cheeks, back to the rowdy pub, back to Stella's lashes, then back to the wand.

The swinging was now centring around the Atlantic, the circle of its pendulous motion growing tighter and tighter.  Suddenly, the motion stopped, and the crystal was drawn to a point somewhere off the coast of western Africa like a magnet, where it stood quivering on its point.

Stella opened her eyes and looked down to where the crystal remained, balancing upright and unmoving.  "Success," she said, sounding pleased.  "That, then, is where Captain Sparrow is at this very moment."

"Where is he going, though?  Where is he coming from?" James wondered, peering curiously at the crystal.

"Mark that spot, please," Stella ordered absently.  No sooner had James put his finger next to the point of the crystal than Stella whisked it away, tucking it back into the pouch.  Then, she gathered the collection of white and black stones into her hands.  "Move now, please."

The moment his finger was free of the map's surface, Stella opened her hands and cast the stones out onto the table.  They scattered around the point in the Atlantic without any discernable pattern.  Still, the brunette peered at them as though there was, murmuring quietly to herself as she touched her fingers to the map's surface.

"He's going north," she eventually announced.  "North, along the African coast.  He's heading for the Mediterranean... for Turkey.  What on earth can he be doing in Turkey?" she wondered, almost to herself.

James scowled fiercely at the map.  "Something illegal, most likely," he muttered.

"He's a pirate, James.  'Something illegal' describes his entire life," Stella scoffed, scooping the stones back into her pouch and moving to roll up her maps.  But when she caught sight of his face, she paused, one hand hovering over Singapore.  "What is it?"

"I almost had him there, you know," James commented, staring fixedly down at the Mediterranean.  He tapped a point on the map.  "There, off Tripoli. I was within sight of that blasted ship of his—within cannon range, even!  I chased them out into the Atlantic, and I nearly had them—I was almost there!  Not even your winds could help them, then."

He looked up from the table to find Stella staring fixedly into her lap, apparently ashamed of her own part in Sparrow's escape.  He felt vindictively pleased at that, at seeing her actually remorseful for her actions, instead of defensive or defiant or annoyed or angry.  But once she felt his gaze on her, she straightened up, hid her emotions, and stared at him quizzically.

"Since you're here, you obviously didn't catch them," Stella remarked, the question hidden in her words.  "Has it anything to do with the hurricane I sometimes see in your mind's eye?"

Now it was his turn to look down into his lap.  "Yes.  It has... everything to do with that hurricane.  That hurricane..." he said slowly.  "It came upon us as we sailed out after them.  I... we were so close to catching them—so close!  I didn't want to wait... I knew we'd loose them if I did."

Stella winced.  "So you sailed through."

"I didn't know it was a hurricane," he insisted dully.  "I truly did not know.  I thought it was only a storm.  And once we were in, and I realised what we were up against, I tried to turn around.  But I couldn't—not that there was anywhere we could've gone.  We were too far into the ocean at that point."

"And you lost your ship."

"I lost my ship, my crew, my credibility, and my life," he said unhappily.

"You hardly lost your life, James," Stella snapped.  "You may have lost your social position and your career, but you're still alive and drawing breath.  Many are unable to say that—including most of your men."

James flinched, and kept his eyes trained on the table.  Thus, he only heard when Stella softened.  "I know how it feels, to loose everything around you and feel as though you've lost your life.  Truly, James, I do," she said gently.  "But life is a gift.  The mere fact that you're still alive is a gift, and one not granted to everyone.  Try to appreciate it?"  Then, perhaps knowing that he had no response to that, she changed the subject.  "May I ask you a question?"

"Didn't you just?"

She sneered at him.  "I wish to ask you another question."

"Fire away," James said dismissively.

"Why did you chase him?  What was so all-fired important about catching Jack Sparrow that you were willing to go through a hurricane to do it?" Stella asked bluntly.

James smiled bitterly.  "You know, I ask myself that question almost every day," he remarked, taking a hearty swig of rum.  That nearly emptied the bottle, and he set it down with a clunk.  "If you want to hear the entire tale of woe, I'll need more rum," he announced.

The rum was swiftly procured, and soon enough he had his fingers wrapped around the neck of a bottle as he prepared to tell a story he wished he'd never known to a woman he didn't much like in a place he heartily desired to leave.

He took a deep breath.  Then he let it out.  He took another, then exhaled.  Inhale, exhale.  This process was repeated several times.

"Are you going to actually speak one of these days?" Stella inquired acidly.

"I'm trying to find the beginning," he snapped back.

"Perhaps when you first laid eyes on our intrepid captain?"

"No," James immediately denied.  "No, not then.  I had him, then—I didn't need to chase him.  But then there was the debacle with the Black Pearl and Elizabeth's abduction and Sparrow's escape and so... other things took my attention," he said wryly.

"So your consuming desire to capture—or recapture, I should say—Sparrow did not begin with the events revolving around the curse of _The Black Pearl_ ," Stella prompted.

"Well, sort of," James frowned, trying to straighten it all out in his increasingly rum-soaked mind.

Stella briefly covered her face with her spidery white hand, before straightening up and regarding him with a bemused smile.  "I would ask you about it later, when you're sober, but I suspect I shall never find you so honest as I do now," she remarked wryly.  "Why do you need to find and kill Jack Sparrow?"

"Because I need my life back," he replied promptly, and took another drink.

"And how will killing Sparrow get your life back?"

"He's the one that ruined it in the first place!"

"Not that Jack isn't wonderful at ruining things, but how did he ruin your life?"

James sighed, and scratched his beard.  "I should shave," he remarked absently.

"Yes, you should, but focus, please.  How did Sparrow ruin your life?"

"He escaped.  It was the last straw, really, was Sparrow," he explained glumly.  "Between the attack on Port Royal, the kidnapping of the governor's daughter, the loss of _The Interceptor_ , and the loss of nearly half my men at the Isla de Muerta, I was on very, very shaky ground with the Royal Navy.  When I let Sparrow escape... and couldn't capture him again... and then lost the best ship in the Caribbean... well, they suggested strongly that I resign my commission so they needn't discharge me.  I did," James chronicled flatly.  He took another large gulp of rum.  "If he hadn't escaped... if I hadn't lost _The Dauntless_ chasing him... I probably could've regained my honour, in time.  But it was Jack Sparrow who finished my career."

"Is that why you chase him?  As a form of punishment, of self-flagellation?" Stella inquired quietly, barely heard over the din of the pub around them.

James snorted.  "I think it has more to do with revenge than punishment," he said honestly.

He was surprised when Stella merely nodded, took another sip of her wine, and replied, "Fair enough.  I suppose that's a decent reason to bend your energies to his death."  He'd been expecting a lecture on wasted potential or a snippy comment of some sort.

 _I think she gets more likeable the quieter she is_ , James thought tipsily.  He watcher her finish off her glass of wine, then pour another.  A becoming pink flush was rising in her sallow cheeks, and her smiles came a mite more readily and were a mite wider than usual.  _Or perhaps the drunker she is_.

They sat together for the next hour-and-a-half.  James worked his way steadily through his second bottle of rum; Stella downed three further glasses of wine.  She often drew forth his rusty chuckles; he was able to coax forward a caw-like laugh he'd never before heard from her.

Currently, they were chatting about Shakespeare—Macbeth, to be specific, since he'd made a throwaway reference to eye of newt and toe of frog and Stella had informed him that actually it was supposed to be eye of frog and tail of newt.

"You mean it's actually real?"

"Some of it, of course," she replied, apparently surprised that he'd doubted.

"But you mean the Weird Sisters actually exist?" James pressed, words slurring slightly in his enthusiasm.

She shrugged and took another sip of wine, finishing off the fourth glass of the evening.  "I don't know," she admitted.  "I've never met them myself, and if they were real—real like you and I—they were dead long before Mirela came to the Caribbean."

"What do you mean, real like you and I?" James asked confusedly.

"Real-mortal-human," she replied simply.  At his incredulous look, she laughed.  "Oh, there's more in this world than just mortal humans and immortal something else's... there's plenty of variants in between.  Immortal-human, pretending-to-be-human, human-once, almost-human, cursed, released-from-curse-but-still-lingering... and some things even I don't know about.  The world is a much more interesting place than most people ever suppose."

"So I'm beginning to understand," he murmured.  "Could you, perhaps—"

He never finished the request; a bottle was thrown in their direction, and he had to dive under the table to avoid being hit.

It was one of those destructive full-pub fights that occasionally broke out.  People were shooting and breaking bottles and throwing each other into tables and punching each other for the sheer fun of it.  He'd been involved in one of these a few weeks ago... it had ending in being thrown down the well.  Needless to say, James wasn't eager to experience the same again, and figured he'd just stay out of this one.

Stella slid out of her seat with an oomph and joined him under the table, black eyes wide as she clutched her bag to her chest.  "What on earth is happening?" she demanded.

"Fight," he replied succinctly.

A body was thrown on the top of their table, and it wobbled dangerously as people's boots scuffled on by.  Stella's eyes got even wider, and she inched closer.  "Thank you, James.  I honestly don't know what I'd do without your deductive reasoning capabilities," she said tartly, though the sharpness in her tones was somewhat dulled by the fact that her hand was clenched in the fabric of his jacket.

He rolled his eyes.  "It's a brawl, Stella.  A bunch of drunken pirates who decide to release tension by beating each other bloody.  They'll eventually finish and throw some unfortunate soul down a well or in the pig pen, and everything will be calm again.  We just need to stay hidden until it blows over."  He paused, glancing down at her huge eyes and parted lips.  "Didn't you ever wonder about all the noise that comes out of these places?"

"I had a self-imposed rule to be well at home before the sun went down."

"'Had'?  What made you break it?" he inquired, curious.

"A bottle of wine and some intelligent conversation."

"Ah."

Something broke against the table again, and broken glass rained around them.  It crunched as it was ground into the floor by the boots of the men who danced around it, throwing punches—James couldn't see them, but he was familiar with the smacking sound of fist hitting flesh.  After one particular hit, the table shuddered and something tiny bounced into their sanctuary, eventually finding purchase in the folds of Stella's dress.

"Look, a tooth," said Stella, plucking the object from her skirt and squinting at it in the dim light.

He was about to comment on the essentially disgusting nature of her new acquisition when her black eyes got impossibly huge.  A split-second later, her fingers were torn away from his arm as she was unceremoniously yanked out from under the table.

Over the din in the pub, James heard her shriek, and scrambled out after her, overturning the table in his wake.  "Stella!"

She was on the floor, and a man with a ratty moustache had hold of her ankle.  Her grey skirts had slid farther up on her leg, revealing a skinny calf encased in a worn stocking, and the cretin currently grabbing her was leering at the revealed limb.  He was so distracted, as a matter of fact, that he didn't notice two important things: one, that the woman he was ogling was a witch with a habit of castrating men, and two, that James Norrington was about to punch him in the face.

The moustachioed pirate let go of Stella's ankle right quick after James' fist impacted with his jaw.  He staggered back, wiping blood from his mouth and dropping Stella's leg before lunging for his attacker.  Thankfully, however, before he could even swing a punch, Stella's foot shot out and kicked him sharply in the shin, making him stumble and giving James the opportunity to hit him again.

Which he did.

The pirate staggered back into another knot of fighting, where he quickly became absorbed.  Immediate threat dealt with, James quickly leaned down and pulled Stella to her feet, intending to find the exit and get her out of the mêlée.

The door seemed a long way away.  James knew they wouldn't make it out unscathed—there were too many people in between them and their portal of deliverance.  The largest room in the pub, upon whose cusp they stood, was teeming with activity.  Punches, gunshots, broken bottles, overturned mugs... it was chaos.

Stella gasped, digging her nails into his hand and pointing with the other.  Her warning was just in time for him to notice a blonde man aiming a swing at his head.  Letting go of her hand, James ducked, before jabbing a quick hit to the man's gut, which bent him double.  Then, he tried to move further into the room, Stella on his heels, as they edged daintily around another throng.  Unfortunately, James and Stella didn't get five feet before they were waylaid by another man.  James lashed out; another hit to the face, a jab to the stomach.  This one, however, kept coming with a malicious intent in his butcher's blue eyes.

But before the man could get any closer, a bottle flew through the air and descended abruptly onto his head, impacting with a hollow thunk.  He went down, and James glanced at Stella to see a kind of prim satisfaction on her face, though her lips were pinched tightly together.

Her satisfaction, however, was short-lived; another set of brawlers was approaching, with swords in hand this time.  James didn't need to see Stella's face to know that it had gone chalky white, and he could feel her fragile fingers trembling.  He cursed his swordless state and spared a swift moment to long for his lost sword, left back in Port Royal, viciously regretting that he hadn't brought it with him.  At the time, he hadn't wanted any reminders of William Turner, and in a strange way, he hadn't wanted to shame the blade further by carrying it deeper into his disgrace.  Now, he surely could've used it; how was he supposed to protect the lady without a sword?

James looked down at Stella.  Stella looked up at James.  They seemed to come to an agreement and, in unison, made an about-face and ran.  Dodging and weaving, they eventually sought sanctuary under the stairs, squeezing into a tiny, dark bolt-hole.  They were breathing heavily and splattered with beer, rum, ale, and tiny glass shards.  Stella fit neatly under his chin, still clasping his hand and trembling.  Her hair had come loose from its bindings and fell to her waist, covering his hand and tickling slightly.

Suddenly, James was reminded of a small bird he'd had once—a starling, when he was a child back in England.  He had found it in the back garden, with a broken wing.  When he'd picked it up to bring it inside to his mother, it had felt as delicate in his hands as Stella felt now; it had trembled in his hold as she trembled now; and its feathers had felt as sleek as the black hair brushing against his fingers.

The starling had healed, eventually, and left the shelter of his hands, though it continued to dwell often in the tree behind his family's townhouse.  Sometimes it would come and perch near him when he sat outside; he would study, and the starling would watch and chatter at him occasionally.  He’d left it behind, though, when he’d left to become a midshipman, and never seen it again.  In a strange, inexplicable way, Stella put him in mind of that starling, and he wanted to protect her because of it.

He looked up, trying to judge how many men there were on the upper level of the pub.  The stairs, at least were mostly clear.  Then he glanced back out to the main room, which was still a massive jumble of fighting.

"We'll have to go up," he said to Stella, leaning down to put his voice closer to her ear.

"Then let us go," she replied, hitching up her skirts.

James clasped her hand and took a deep breath.  He felt Stella squeeze his hand slightly, which he took as an indication that she was ready.  As soon as he saw a clear path around to the front of the stairs, he lunged out of the nook, Stella in tow.  Before they managed to reach the foot of the stairs, someone dumped a cask of ale over the railing of the balcony.  Stella got the worst of it, judging by her indignant screech, and James’ coat was drenched in the back.

The impromptu baptism of alcohol didn't slow their progress up the stairs—however, meeting a set of leering, grinning pirates half-way up certainly did.  James stopped cold, nearly causing Stella to trip and fall face-first into the stairs.  Her grip on his hand became nearly painful when she noticed the men advancing on them.  Her other hand flew up, palm facing the impeding men.  James winced preemptively, already knowing what was coming and feeling sorry for the two soon-to-be eunuchs.

He was, however, quite surprised when, instead castrating the men, a massive gust of wind came from nowhere and blew them nonchalantly over the side of the stairs.  There was a vague sound of cracking furniture (or cracking bones), but it was otherwise lost in the din.

Stunned, he looked down at Stella, who raised a brow.  "It worked, didn't it?" she demanded.

There was, however, no further time to contemplate the ethics of death by wind, inasmuch as a man was about to be hurled down the stairs.  James quickly looped an arm around Stella's waist and dragged her out of harm's way, pressing back against the railing of the stairs as a portly man went rolling down, followed by a rowdy crowd of pirates who tore down after him, picking up the electrocuted men in their wake.

The minute the way was clear, James quickly finished ascending the stairs, Stella rushing along after him.  There were, of course, more fights up on the top level, but it was much less dense, leaving plenty of places for people to slip through.  Mostly, the pirates on the upper level involved themselves with throwing things down onto the lower floor.

Stella tugged gently on his hand, leading him towards a window overlooking a small lean-to and a palm tree.  They danced around a throng of battlers, ducked a flying bottle which shattered on the wall behind them, James had to punch several men who would have impeded their progress, and Stella hit with the bottle those who would have hit James.  Finally, they made it to the window.

"We're just going to jump out?" James asked as Stella flicked her wrist and casually blew out the window panes.

Both had to duck as another shot rang out.  It hit a casement about ten feet away, shattering the wood.  Splinters went flying, pelting their skin with little stings.  "Unless you fancy staying here," Stella replied quickly, removing the bag from her shoulder and tossing it out the window.

Another gunshot rang out, this time aimed at the ceiling.  James looked down, then quickly looked away as Stella squirmed out the window, baring her legs all the way up to her thighs.  Once she was out, James quickly slithered out after her, thanking his lucky stars that no one had noticed them leave.

The lean-to was rickety and rather wobbly and James worried that he was going to put a hole through and get his foot stuck.  Stella, with her lighter frame and steps, had already made it to the end and was peering over the edge nervously.  The port town of Tortuga was bustling tonight; it seemed that there were several all-pub brawls occurring, even aside from the usual fist-cuffs and anarchy.  Every so often pistols would be fired into the air; empty bottles were tossed around and occasionally shattered against a wall; men and women ran merrily (and sometimes not-so-merrily) through the streets, laughing and screaming.  The flickering torches and candles cast the town in a palette of yellow light and shadow, and it looked rather like James suspected hell might appear.

Without saying anything, he sat on the edge of the roof and lowered himself over, keeping a grip on the edge.  That diminished the distance between his feet and the ground to something manageable.  His legs wobbled upon landing, and he stumbled back and sat unceremoniously in a puddle of mud.  He quickly regained his feet, however, since a large, rowdy mob was beginning to spill out of the tavern and into the streets, and he didn't want to get in their way.

Gesturing to Stella, he opened his arms and braced himself.  The woman carefully launched herself off the roof, and James managed to catch her, though he staggered back upon impact and nearly fell into the puddle again.  Once he'd found his footing, he set Stella on her feet.  Her knees nearly buckled, and she clung to his arms, which automatically went around her thin waist to steady her.

A window shattered outwards behind them as a man was thrown through it—the fight was spilling out of the pub.  Green eyes met black in the dim light of a Tortuga evening.  Stella picked up her skirts and dashed off in a slightly swerving path.  James followed, wobbling in a different set of arcs, but basically in the same line.

Stella led him through the trees, shoving leaves and branches out of her way.  Sometimes she remembered to wait for her companion; other times James was hit in the chest by palm fronds.  He could still see the glow of the lanterns and hear the sound of shouting and gunshots, but it seemed that Stella was leading them around the town and towards her graveyard home.

What a night.

Then, with a surprised yelp, he saw Stella trip and fall face-forward into something that went "splat".  Unfortunately, at this point, James was so close behind her that he tripped over the same root, and fell face-forward onto her.

"Get off!" Stella gasped.

James rolled away, head spinning, right into the mud which Stella had landed in.  At least, he thought optimistically, landing on the witch had spared the front of his body from the full brunt of the mud.

He watched as Stella pulled her arms free from the thick sludge and used them to lever herself out of the mire.  He had to bite his lip to keep from laughing, feeling that if he did, Stella would loose her temper and do something very unpleasant to him.

Her front was absolutely caked in mud—face, hair, dress... everything.  She looked vaguely like some swamp monster come to eat his soul as she pulled herself out of the puddle and took a few steps back onto the dry path.  James stood up and joined her, futilely trying to wipe the mud off his hands.

They stood on the path in the weak moonlight.  Stella looked down at herself.  Her front was covered in mud—James couldn't even discern the original colour of her dress anymore—from top to toes.  On her back, she was drenched in ale, splinters, and glass fragments.  She didn't look a thing like a lady—in fact, she barely looked human at this point.  It was funny, but James didn't want to laugh, since he had a feeling Stella wouldn't find it quite so amusing.

Stella looked up at him—he could just about see the glitter of her black eyes through the mud.  Then she looked back down at herself.  Then she looked back up, and lifted a hand to scrape a handful of mud off her face... which she then threw directly at his chest.

It went "splat".

James scowled and opened his mouth to protest when Stella surprised him yet again: she simply threw back her head and started laughing.  It was a full-bodied cackle, the laugh that reminded him of crows, abandoned and slightly hysterical.   She bent nearly double, clutching her mud-covered stomach.

And suddenly the absurdity of the situation hit him as well, and James started laughing himself.  It was all so insane—he'd been involved in a tavern brawl with a lady-witch, they were both covered in drink and mud, and now they were standing in the jungle, slightly drunk, laughing at each other.

Eventually the hilarity wound down, and Stella straightened up, still wiping muck off her face.  "What a night," she gasped, unconsciously echoing James' earlier thoughts.  "I can confidently say that this is the first time anything of the sort has ever happened to me."

"I wouldn't make it a habit," James chuckled.  "You look terrible, Stella."

"You don't look much better yourself," she retorted, though with much less acid than her usual ripostes.  She sounded... almost teasing.  Fond.  Amused.   "I daresay we are both in desperate need of baths."  She flapped her sodden skirts once, before giving it up as a bad job and shaking her mucky head.

"I daresay you're right," James sighed, realising that there was no hope of a bath until morning, at least.

Stella's voice broke into his thoughts.  "Well, come on, then," she insisted, planting her hands on her hips and tapping her foot impatiently.

James rolled his eyes, offering his arm as she apparently expected.  They were, after all, both so dirty that a little more muck wouldn't hurt.  He didn't realise until the next morning, when he was bathed and rested and demanding that Stella give back his wig, that it was the most fun he'd had in months.  Even when involved in an argument about the state of his wig (which eventually ended with Stella agreeing to clean, mend, and re-powder it in return for the performance of several household chores that she wasn't strong enough to carry out herself), James found it impossible to forget the laughter in moonlight.

Somehow, when he wasn't looking, Stella Bell had strangely, inexplicably, and irrevocably become a friend.  And when she would roll her eyes at him, make pert comments, yet still bring him water as he made a game attempt to fix her roof, James had a feeling that she was aware of it too.


	11. Stella Existimationis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which domesticity descends, and Stella worries for her reputation.

When it happened, it happened subtly—so subtly that, on a chilly January day when she woke to find him in her kitchen, staring out her door at the rain, she was utterly confused as to how he came to become such an integral part of the house.

"How long will the rain last?" he asked, once he heard her behind him.

"Until the evening.  There will be stars tonight," she replied, moving to get breakfast.

"How is the roof holding?"

"No leaks yet," Stella replied, smiling faintly.

"I'm impressed."

"You're impressed with your own work?  Should I chide you for arrogance or worry about the integrity of the repairs?" Stella inquired, arching an eyebrow.

James just rolled his eyes.  "I'd never repaired a roof before.  Tarred a ship, yes—but never a roof."

Stella favoured him with a wry smile and a light laugh as she pulled a half-loaf of bread wrapped in paper out of her cupboards.  Together with some butter and a jar of preserves, the meal was served.  The two of them sat down at the table to eat.  Every so often, Stella would glance curiously at James, still perplexed over when he’d wormed so irrevocably into her life.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked her after the fifth time he’d caught her staring.

"No reason," she demurred.

He snorted.  "Of course.  Because you always stare at your breakfast guests in confusion."

"You’re the first breakfast guest I’ve ever had," Stella replied honestly.  Then something occurred to her, and her black eyes widened in horror.  "Dear God... I’m becoming my mother."

Now it was James’ turn to look confused.  "Is that a bad thing?  I thought your mother was a good woman."

"In many ways, she was.  But in others..." Stella trailed off, then stood, absently making her way to the window and staring out at the rain, suddenly feeling cold.

How could she have let this happen?  She had always sworn that she would not follow in her mother’s footsteps... that she would never fall in love with a man who could not or would not marry her—actually, that she would never fall in love with anyone.  She had vowed to keep her reputation as pure as snow.  There would be no whispers and derisive glances following her path through life.

Yet here she was, living on a pirate island, known publicly as a witch, spending vast amounts of time alone with unmarried man.

Her reputation was not so pure any longer.

Oh dear.

"Stella?"

"Yes?"

"Something's troubling you," James stated bluntly.  Stella spared a thought to wonder just when, exactly, he became so very good at reading her.

...Probably around the same time he moved into the house.

"Well spotted," she noted sarcastically, sinking unceremoniously down onto the window seat and staring out at the dripping water.  Before he could take offence, she changed the subject quickly.  "We are friends, are we not?"

"Yes, although there are times I confess to wondering why," James grumbled, brushing crumbs off his breeches as he joined her on the window seat.

Stella made a noncommittal noise and stared back out at the rain.  James was silent beside her... for a while, anyway.  Eventually he prompted, "You were going to explain your distress."

"Was I?" she asked archly.

"Yes, you were.  And I was going to listen attentively and attempt to comfort you, inasmuch as this rain will last for days if you're upset," he replied matter-of-factly.

Stella snorted in amusement, marvelling inwardly at how... accepting he was nowadays regarding the more supernatural aspects of the world, and of herself.  _I trained him rather well_ , she thought wryly, looking back out at the rain.

"Stella?"

"We are friends, are we not?" she asked again, realising that he wasn't going to relent until she explained herself, and trying to decide the best way to go about it.  Should she tell all?

"We have already established that yes, we are, in fact, friends," James replied dryly.

Stella shot him a flat look, and returned tartly, "Then perhaps the source of my troubles will become apparent when I tell you that I have recently come to the realisation that our situation bears an eerie resemblance to the circumstances of my parents."

James just blinked his green eyes at her, looked out at the rain, then down at his breeches, then back at her.  "I hardly think the situation is the same," he finally said.

"And I hardly think you are familiar with the particulars of my family, such as it was," Stella shot back acidly.  "Oh yes, the location has changed a bit... the circumstances I've sunk to, so to speak... and the feelings involved—or rather," she added wryly, recalling the steadfast love and devotion of her parents and contrasting it with the rather acerbic friendship between James and herself, "the lack of feelings involved.  Nevertheless, we but see through a glass darkly.  We could be my parents, such as it is.  The thought disturbs me."

Silence descended as James pondered this new piece of information.  Stella watched him out of the corner of her eye, observing as he slowly gathered the puzzle pieces together.  She had decided to lead him in the direction of one of her last secrets... but she wasn't about to make it easy for him and simply tell him.  The clues would be presented, and if he arrived at the correct conclusion, she would confirm it.

"We're not married," he eventually announced, looking evenly at her.

Despite the lack of humour, Stella couldn’t help but smile inwardly.  He really was quite sharp.  She merely raised a brow and replied blandly, "Neither were my parents."

His reaction was all she could've hoped for—though she would never, ever admit it, even to herself... in a tiny corner of her heart, Stella had been slightly worried that he would scorn her for the circumstances of her birth and that she would loose the best friend she had since her arrival on the island.

James simply nodded, remarking, "Well, I suppose that explains the similarities in our situations—your parents' to ours, that is.  It also explains some things regarding your particular circumstances that have perplexed me for some time."

"Oh?"  Stella's curiosity was piqued.

"I had wondered," he admitted, "as to why you were on this island.  Why did you not go to your other family upon the death of your father?  Why had you not left prior to now—I know for a fact that it is not because you lack the funds."

The last was added in something of a rueful tone; he had discovered a few weeks back that the only reason he was not in debt up to his elbows was because Stella had been surreptitiously paying his bills.  Furthermore, since he had come to spend more time in the Graveyard House, he had been exposed to more of Stella's customers, and thus had more information on her rather expansive income than anyone else on the island.  Suffice to say, Stella Bell was not a poor woman.  He now understood how she could come to hold more gentle standards than the rest of the island: she was very well-off.

"But I must admit to some continuing confusion about why, exactly, you need me to take you off the island.  You have enough to afford passage yourself," James added.

"Where would I go?" Stella asked.  "What would I do when I arrived?  What would happen to me on the way?  I have already learned of the dangers present for women travelling alone."  This last had a flavour of decided bitterness.  At James' quizzical expression, she elaborated.  "Remember?  My mother and I were moving to start a new life in Jamaica after my father's death.  We were... requested to depart the isle of Antigua, where the Bell plantation was located, you see.  But on the voyage there, we were attacked by pirates."

She paused for a moment, feeling the old ache surface and submerge.  But she continued gamely on.  "If such a thing could happen to two women travelling alone, how much worse would it be for one?  And as I have no connections, and God only knows where my remaining family is... where on earth would I go?"

After a moment, James spoke again.  "I... well.  Well."

"You think worse of me now," Stella conjectured coolly.

"I'm in no position to think of worse of anyone now, Stella," he replied, equally cool.  "I simply feel I should apologise."

"Apologise?"

"I... the waters here were unsafe for many years.  A pirate's playground—all travellers were in danger.  I worked so very hard to change that... but not soon enough to be of any use to you and your mother.  And for that I apologise."  Stella's surprise must have been visible—she could feel her eyebrows making a game attempt to escape her forehead—since he added defensively, "I know such feelings are irrational, but I feel them nonetheless.  And I should also apologise for the detrimental effect I'm having on your reputation," he added glumly.

"I assume you are referring the fact that the entirety of the island believes us to be paramours?"

"Yes, that," he muttered as his unshaven cheeks flushed crimson.

Stella sighed shortly.  "I suppose there wasn't much hope for my reputation, anyway.  After all, I've been living alone for nine years on a pirate island, even beyond being the bastard daughter of a plantation owner and a privateer's daughter... and a witch to boot," she recited bitterly.  She noted a slight slump in James' shoulders and felt suddenly, inexplicably guilty.  "James, it isn't your fault."

"Yes, but all these things could have been overlooked.  Rumours of a lover won't be so easily ignored," he said glumly.

That struck Stella as absurd, and she said so.  "Don't you think it strange that accusations of...er, amorous dalliances are more damning than accusations of witchcraft?"

He released a quick whuff of breath that Stella chose to interpret as laughter.   "I had never quite pondered it before... society really does hold women to some rather strange standards," he commented thoughtfully.

"Yes, it does," Stella agreed evenly.  "And it leaves us no choice but to follow them, lest we be cast from it."

She was quite surprised when James' larger hand closed around hers.  When she looked up and met his earnest green gaze, he gripped her fingers even more firmly.  "I promise that, should we ever find our way back into polite society, I will do all I can to help you.  I will not let your assistance to me have adverse effects on your future—not if I can help it.  I promise."

Stella was still taken aback that she smiled quite without thinking.  "Thank you," she said quietly, flushing and squeezing his hand oh-so-gently.  "You are very good."

"So are you," he informed her, green eyes twinkling just a little bit.

"Do be kind enough not to spread that around," she requested dryly, lips curving into a grin quite despite herself.  "It would destroy the façade I strove so very hard to construct."

"No one shall ever hear otherwise from me," he promised solemnly.

They fell into a companionable silence, broken only by the sound of falling raindrops... at least, until Stella pressed James' hand again, and whispered, "You are a good friend, James Norrington."

He merely laced their fingers together and placed his other hand over their twined hands.  They sat and watched the rain, and Stella felt something she had not experienced for the better part of five years...


	12. Stella Providenti

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which dreams are discussed, and incipient change looms.

James watched curiously as Stella performed a strange ritual after making afternoon tea.  It began normally—the heating of the water and the infusing of the leaves carried on as usual—but then she had spun the cup three times left, drunk the tea with unseemly rapidity, and then overturned the cup into the saucer, the contents of which she was now peering at intently.

"What in heaven's name are you doing?" he finally demanded.

"Reading the tea leaves," was the absent reply.

Perhaps it was one of those witch-things she did every so often.  Though he found Stella to be the lady in almost all areas of life, she did have her eccentricities that never let him forget what, exactly, she was.   For example, she never needed to stir anything—the spoon moved itself.  When she was busy and needed something, she just extended a hand and the item flew across the room and to her hand.  (James had been knocked unconscious by a jug before Stella had gotten used to his presence and taken a little more care with her summons.)  The reason she didn't need a maid to help her dress was because the laces laced themselves.  She didn't bother with keys; the locks unlocked themselves at her gesture.  She didn't need steel and flint when she needed to light the fire; she just flicked her fingers at the grate and the kindling ignited.  Every so often he'd find her elbow-deep in some concoction, or scrutinizing the entrails of dead animals, or up on the roof peering at the stars or the clouds.  Reading tea leaves was new, though.

"What do they say?" he inquired after a moment.

"Change is coming," she murmured.  "With the spring."

He shrugged.  "That isn't for a while, yet."

"It always comes faster than you want, though," was Stella's surprisingly gloomy response.

A quick glance showed Stella looking as gloomy as her tones indicated.  He felt worried.  "Why... have you foreseen some calamity in the future?"

Stella looked up at him, shaking her head.  "No.  I couldn't, anyway.  My talent is not premonition."

"So what did you see?" he asked curiously, resting back in the chair.

"I didn't see anything," Stella drawled.  "For me, it isn't like that.  It's more like... seeing something, and interpreting it.  Like, for example, seeing a shape in a cloud.  That means something, and, judging from the question whose answer I seek, I can interpret the shape within those parameters.  Except it isn't a cloud, but tea leaves."

"Isn't that somewhat vague, though?"

"A little, yes—but only because I'm not gifted in this arena.  It's a little like... oh, like having a cannon fired at your ship.  You see where the shot is coming from, and the smoke from the firing, but you don't know where it will hit or what it will do.  You can just... guess," Stella explained, blushing slightly.

Her attempted use of nautical occurrences as metaphor was not lost on him, and James felt oddly touched that she was trying to make it more understandable for him.  He didn't entirely understand—nor did he think he ever would, lacking any and all talents in that area—but the basic gist was that Stella knew something was coming but had no real details otherwise.

"Well, what do you 'guess' is coming?" James inquired, feeling an answering smile grow on his face.  She really was the only decent thing on this island.

"Fate.  Destiny.  _Something_ ," she replied, looking intensely back at her saucer and the dregs of her tea.  "The sensation is like unto the one which afflicted me in the months before your arrival.  Almost like lemon, really," she added, almost to herself, tapping her lower lip with her forefinger.

James couldn't restrain a chuckle.  "Lemon?"

Stella made a face.  "It's the best metaphor I have," she insisted.  Then, to James' surprise, she lifted her head and sniffed the air with her pointed nose.  "Perhaps with a hint of orange, but mostly lemon."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know yet... it's too far off."  She rested her chin on her hand and regarded him thoughtfully.  By now, he knew her well enough to discern the faint sparkle in her black eyes.  "What do you hope it means?"

James just furrowed his brow in puzzlement.

Stella rolled her eyes.  "What do you want from the future?"  At his incredulous look, she added defensively, "I'm not adverse to a bit of daydreaming, James.  Underneath all the magic, I am still a young woman."

Smiling sheepishly, since that had been exactly what he was thinking, James actually gave the matter some thought.  "I want... I want things as they were," he finally admitted.  "I want to be back in Port Royal... I want to be Commodore again.  I want to be engaged to Elizabeth.  I want Jack Sparrow hanged."

"But I asked you about the future, not the past," Stella chided gently.  "No matter how much you want it, you cannot go back.  What do you want in the future?"

Sighing unhappily, James mulled further.  "I suppose... I suppose it would be pleasant if I caught Sparrow... and took him back to Port Royal for justice.   The authorities would be so pleased that they would offer me a pardon and reinstate my commission—perhaps as a captain, not commodore.  Perhaps Elizabeth will have realised that Turner is beneath her, and will allow me to court her again..."

Even as he spoke, he realised the absurdity of that hope.  If Elizabeth was willing to face rifles and bayonets for William Turner, she would hardly be driven off by social inequality.  When he met Stella's gaze, her arched eyebrow spoke volumes on her thoughts of the matter.

"Yes, I know that is unrealistic as well," he muttered.

Her smile was crooked and rather sad.  "I did ask about what you wanted, not what you thought was possible," she pointed out.

"What do you want, then?" he queried.

She surprised him with something equally unattainable.  "I, too, would prefer to return to the past, when my parents were alive and I was living as a gentleman's daughter on Antigua.  But as that is impossible... well."  She tapped her forefinger on her lower lip again.  "I think I would enjoy meeting a respectable gentleman... being removed from this island... I suppose I should have to marry said gentleman... and living comfortably on another island.  Or perhaps somewhere in the colonies... even Britain, if I'm feeling adventurous.  A pleasant home, children..."  She shrugged.  "Equally unrealistic, I'm afraid."

"And entirely prosaic.  Honestly, Stella, haven't you got a single romantic bone in your body?" James demanded in exasperation.

Her answering laugh was surprisingly bitter.  "I learned very early on that romance has very few benefits."

James smiled wryly.  "I imagine that, once you fall in love yourself, you may change your mind."

He was surprised when her face twisted with an emotion he could not name... a mixture of sorrow, bitterness, and contempt was his best guess.  "May that day never come," she said vehemently.

"Why ever not?" he asked, confused.

Stella tried to elude the question.  "I confess a measure of shock at discovering your advocacy of that particular emotion," she remarked coolly.  "Since you have been crossed in love yourself."

"That doesn't make the emotion any less worthy," he returned mildly, determined not to rise to her baiting.

He had noted, after a few weeks, that whenever he stumbled across some issue that Stella considered too close to her heart to warrant discussion, she would needle at some painful area of his own heart in order to distract him.  It was a rather underhanded, dishonourable tactic, but he had eventually learned to counteract it.  He could do nothing more vexing to his friend than to refuse her a reaction and simply worry away at the original topic of conversation.

Which he did.  "Come now, Stella," he insisted.  "You told me there was a young lady under all the witchery... surely you don't mean to contradict yourself so soon afterwards.  Most young ladies have a dream or two of love floating somewhere in their heads."

_That's the ticket... throw out a challenge.  Stella never can resist those,_ he thought cheerfully to himself.

A delicately lifted brow indicated that she was not unaware of the direction of his thoughts, but James was an astute judge of her character, and she could not indeed resist the challenge he'd thrown out.

"I thought you would have realised by now that I am hardly 'most young ladies'," she replied archly.

_Touché_ , he thought, and asked calmly, "So there will be no love in Miss Bell's conjectured future?"

Stella sneered faintly.  "I hope not.  My ancestors have shown consistently poor judgment in their amatory selections," she admitted.

James raised a brow curiously.  "Really?"

"Really.  All my foremothers seem to fall in love with some man who either does not love her in return, or returns her love at the sake of her reputation," Stella explained delicately.  She smiled humourlessly.  "Sometimes both, in the case of my great-grandmother Isabella.  I can't even recall when the last one of us was born legitimate.  Certainly not since the early 1600's.  But strangely enough, not one of them ever learned," she added wryly, but not quite able to hide the bitterness underneath.  "They always chose their men poorly, heedlessly following their hearts, ignoring every claim of reason and morality.  And they suffered for it.  I swore when I was girl that their fate would never be mine," she finished intently, glaring down at her hands, which were fisted in her skirts.

James thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. "Well, that's fine.  I won't have to worry about you loosing your head if I introduce you to Lt. Groves."

Stella shot him a flat look as he first spoke, but the moment he mentioned introducing her to someone she tilted her head to the side in a curiously birdlike manner.  James was once again reminded of his childhood starling.  "Since your imagined fantasy future was quite lacking in both style and colour, I decided to elaborate," he explained.

"Imagined and fantasy mean the same thing," was Stella's light reply.

"I'm drunk," he offered in explanation.  This was not entirely true—he'd only had a half-bottle thus far today—but he found it was an easy excuse after saying stupid things.

The corners of Stella's lips quirked.  "Liar.  But do tell: what is your hope for my future?"

"Well, I shall catch Jack Sparrow, and you shall subdue him while we escort him back to Port Royal," James began.  He hadn't really given the idea much thought, despite his earlier quips.  "We will present him to Governor Swann... he will grant a pardon, and I will re-enter the navy.  Perhaps I might captain again.  Perhaps William Turner will have met a gruesome death, and I might console Miss Elizabeth and eventually win her heart..." he added wistfully.  "Meanwhile, you, as my devoted friend, will have been... been keeping house, or something," he fumbled, not entirely sure where Stella would be in this little picture.  "Since Miss Elizabeth is still in mourning, you agree to escort me to whatever functions arise... but your attention is caught by my dashing first lieutenant, who is equally charmed..."

He spared a brief moment to ponder how truly unsuited Stella and Theodore Groves were.  Stella would ride roughshod right over Groves, and Groves would let her.  He always did bend to the strongest wind blowing, and Stella was quite a strong wind (in more ways than one).  Now, if Gillette was still alive...

That pain and loss roared up like the waves that had taken Andrew.  James still hadn't forgiven himself for the loss of the _Dauntless_... not the least because he'd lost his best friend with the ship.

The sensation of Stella's delicate hand resting on his jerked him out of his grief, and he met her quiet black eyes with a sad smile that echoed on her face.  Yes, they both knew of loss... and it truly was a pity Stella wouldn't let him recreate the past, since she and Andrew would have been a match made in heaven...

_Or Hell_ , he added mentally.  Andrew's rather caustic wit plus Stella's dry sarcasm?  Those two would have been terrible together... marvellously, wonderfully, fantastically terrible.

"It never goes away, does it?" he asked suddenly.

Stella instantly knew to what he referred.  "No," she admitted.  "You just learn to live with it as time goes on."

He sighed, and said nothing for a few moments.  "These fantasies... they will never truly occur," he said sadly.

" _In hac spe vivo_ ," was all Stella said in return.

James' mouth twitched in a weak grin.

They remained in silence for the rest of teatime—at least, until Stella tossed her head violently, making her black hair fly out behind her like a banner, expelling the doldrums which seemed to have descended.  "What a terribly depressing conversation to be having on St. Valentine's Day," she quipped, enough acid in her tones to convey her true feelings for the holiday.

"It's St. Valentine's Day?" James asked incredulously.  The last time he had checked the date, it was still late January!

"Yes.  I believe most whores on the island are offering discounts," she added brightly, smiling as though she thought she was being helpful and hadn't just startled him terribly.  There was something dreadfully wrong in hearing the word 'whores' casually tossed around in Stella's prim-and-proper accents.

"I hardly think that is proper teatime conversation," he protested.  Then, to wipe the wicked smirk off her face, he added (with a measure of wickedness himself), "Besides, hardly any of the whores will accept my money—they seem to think that you will hex them if you find out."

Stella burst out into her crow-like laughter, even as her sallow cheeks flushed scarlet.  "Then I shall have to send you into town with a note to assuage your... er, your chosen companion's fears regarding my reaction," she spluttered, black eyes coming as close to sparkling as he had ever seen them.

"Stella!"

"Really, James, I wouldn't begrudge you whichever type of company you would prefer," she drawled, rolling her eyes.  "You forget, my mother was someone's mistress."

"So young, so cynical."  James shook his head.  "Well, I will not require a missive of any sort, inasmuch as I plan to avoid the company of... of the... er, ladies of the night. "

That inspired another round of laughter.

Of course, nothing went as he'd planned.  He completely forgot about his resolve to avoid the streetwalkers after a few drinks.  He ended up being seduced by a very expansive... discount... when he was already rather maudlin in his cups (given the rather melancholy discussion he and Stella had partaken in that afternoon), which made him feel guilty about betraying Elizabeth, which was foolish and reminded him that he was nothing to Elizabeth anymore, which was even more depressing since it was St. Valentine's Day.  He had once wanted to marry Elizabeth on this holiday.  But it was not to be.   He also realised that he was probably disappointing Stella, who didn't approve of his drinking habit, even though she'd long ago stopped making sharp comments about it.

Because he was truly, very drunk at this point, he made his wobbling way back to the Graveyard House, determined to beg Stella's forgiveness.  If she forgave him, maybe she would still marry Andrew and stand up for him when he married Elizabeth.

Wait... he wasn't marrying Elizabeth.

Maybe he was standing up for Stella when she married Andrew.

Or maybe they were both going to throw bottles at Jack Sparrow's hanging.

James was in no state to be speaking to Stella at this moment in time, but this hadn't occurred to him as he knocked on the door.  When she opened it, brow raised quizzically, he announced, "Starling, I'm sorry for drinking."

And without any further notice or warning, he dropped to his knees and threw up all over Stella's shoes and the hem of her dress.

He vaguely heard her furious shriek, but even his liver was unable to compensate for the truly gargantuan amount of rum he'd imbibed that evening, and he passed out in a pool of his own vomit.

* * *

 Stella looked disgustedly down at the unconscious form of her friend.  "You will have to grovel most severely to earn my forgiveness after this, James Norrington," she snapped.  She briefly debated just shutting the door and leaving him outside...

But she knew she wouldn't.  "The things I'm willing to do for friendship," she eventually sighed, kicking off her ruined shoes and preparing to shove her friend's inert body back inside.

"Happy St. Valentine's Day, you ass," she muttered darkly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N part deux: Ha! It finally happened... see, I always knew that James would end up throwing up on Stella's shoes. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this next short chapter. Will Turner shows up in the next one, and things really start moving forward._
> 
> _Also, in case you don't know Latin or Shakespeare, "In hac spe vivo" means "In this hope I live", and it's from the play Pericles, Prince of Tyre._


	13. Stella Nuntii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a familiar face comes visiting.

"I need more cloves," Stella announced one day in April.

James, still suffering from a hangover due to the previous day's libations, was lying under a tree, avoiding the morning sunlight.  He didn't even bother opening his eyes.  "Go get some," he suggested.

"The nearest tree is two miles up the mountain," Stella pointed out.  "You go get it."

"You need it."

"You threw up on my shoes."

Her friend cracked open one bleary green eye to throw a half-hearted glare in her direction.  She stared evenly back.  Finally, James groaned, clambered to his feet, jammed his hat on his head, and stormed into the house to fetch a basket.  Stella smirked.

It had, admittedly, been almost two months since the ill-fated St. Valentine's day, but Stella wasn't about to let James forget that he'd vomited on (and consequently ruined) her favourite pair of shoes.  Most of the time she didn't say anything, but it was a perfect trump card when she wanted to get him to do something he didn't want to.

_We really have become my parents,_ she thought as she watched him stalk, grumbling, towards the mountain path.

Of course, she had an ulterior motive.  She wanted him out of the house today, since she knew she was going to get a customer—the broom had fallen over repeatedly for the past three days.  She also knew that this was a customer to which James had a personal connection, and she didn't want them in the same room.

After all, William Turner had stolen the woman he loved.

Stella frowned as she lost sight of her friend in the lush foliage, feeling suddenly apprehensive.  Things were moving quickly, after years of nothing, and it made her uneasy.  It was April... James had been here for almost a half-year... Jack Sparrow was coming closer to the Caribbean... now William Turner was seeking her out.  A shadow was spreading across the Atlantic... she didn't know what it sought, but she could feel it like the ephemeral breezes before the hurricane struck.

"Perhaps I might get some information from Turner the younger," she murmured to herself, in a habit that living with James had nearly broken—talking to herself, that is.  After all, he was around to speak with most of the time, and he laughed at her when she muttered to the empty air.

So she settled down to wait with some mending.  She didn't know when Turner would appear, but he would do so sometime today.  Hopefully it would take James at least that long to find her cloves.

It was a couple hours after midday, and she was squinting at a miniscule tear in the lace at the sleeves of her best brocade gown when she suddenly sat upright.  A smile curved her thin lips.   He was coming.

(She was never entirely sure how she always knew when someone was approaching her house, but she did.  It was like a psychic tap on the shoulder, and it came in handy as far as frightening customers went.)

Setting the dress back in her bedroom, Stella went to the door, and opened it just as William Turner stopped before it.  "Mr. Turner.   A pleasure to see you again."

He bowed uncomfortably.  "Miss Bell," he replied.  "I seek your advice on a matter of some urgency."

She smiled slightly—the eerie witch smile, as James called it.  "Won't you come in?"  He nodded, and followed her inside.  She left the door open... a small nod to propriety.  "May I offer you some refreshment?"

"Er... some water, perhaps, if you have it."

"Of course."   William took a seat in James' chair as Stella collected the jug of ginger water she kept in the cellar.  Once the two of them were seated and watered, Stella set her glass down and leaned forward.  "What need do you have of me, Mr. Turner?"

"I must find Jack Sparrow," was his intent reply, a frantic fire burning in his dark eyes.  In fact, his desperation was nearly a separate entity, tainting the air around him with its coppery twang.

Stella couldn't quite stifle her ironic laugh.  At Turner's confused look, she half-smiled and explained, "You are not the only man of my acquaintance who does.  One day I really must discover where the attraction lies."

"For my part, it lies in a compass that I must use as a bartering chip for my fiancée's life."

"The lovely Miss Swann," Stella said, smiling darkly.  Elizabeth truly did have a knack for leaving a mark on a man... she could see the lady's face reflected even more clearly in Turner's soul than it was in James'.  "But how can Jack Sparrow's compass save Elizabeth's life, pray tell?"

Turner looked a little uneasy at how much she seemed to know.  Stella spared a moment to be amused at the fact that her knowledge came from an actual person, instead of the mystical method William assumed. "It is the most important ingredient in a bargain to avoid the gallows," he said glumly.

"The gallows?" she repeated incredulously.  None of this scenario made sense.  "Is she not the governor's daughter?"

William sighed, and seemed to slump.  "Yes, for all the good it may do her.  There is a man—a lord—come from England with warrants for our arrest."

"Our?"

"Elizabeth and mine."  He added as an afterthought, "And James Norrington's, but no one knows where he is."

Stella froze.  "James Norrington?"

"He was Commodore... but he resigned his commission some time ago and no one knows where he went."

"I know who he is," she snapped, fear making her short (well, shorter).  "Why does this lord have a warrant for him?"

"We are all wanted for aiding the escape of Captain Jack Sparrow.  Miss Bell, I must find him," he insisted, placing his hands on the table.

"Of course.   I can help you do that, of course.  I can even tell you his exact location at the moment," Stella drawled, hiding the discomfort the young man's information had inspired.

"I sense a 'but'," William returned curtly.

Stella raised her eyebrows.  My, but this young man had done some growing up in the two years since she'd seen him.  The promise she'd felt around him had become more intense.  He was Important... even more than that, he was touched by fate.

She suddenly realised something: William Turner, as she had long known, was Important.  So was Sparrow.  Turner was looking for Sparrow, so these two would be involved in whatever it was that was beginning to happen.  Turner was doing it for Elizabeth Swann, and judging from her limited amount of knowledge concerning that young woman, Stella was willing to bet Miss Swann would somehow insert herself into the proceedings with her fiancé and Jack Sparrow.  James loved Elizabeth... would do anything for her, really... so he would be taking part as well.  And since Stella herself was currently bound to James, it stood to reason that the net these people were caught in was going to entangle her as well.

Oh dear.

"I do require payment, Mr. Turner," she pointed out, acting causal despite having a definite idea of what it was she wanted.

"Name your price," was his instant response.

"Ten shillings, and I will require you to explain the situation to me.  A thorough explanation, Mr. Turner, and I reserve the right to ask whatever questions I wish."

"Done."  Turner removed ten shillings from his purse and handed them to her.  He then told her a tale of an interrupted wedding, a powerful lord of the East India Trading Company, three death warrants, and a deal for a compass Stella knew was magical.

"What does this... Lord Cutler Beckett want with the compass?" she wondered when William finished.

"He didn't say," William admitted.  "He said I must bring it to him in exchange for Elizabeth's life."

"Sparrow will not part with it easily," Stella murmured.  "It was a gift from Tia, and it is magical as well."  Then she looked up at Turner, who seemed surprised to discover that it was a magic compass.  Idiot—why else would a sailor walk around with a compass that didn't point north?  "I sense no good things from this Beckett... whatever he plans to use that compass for, I doubt it will be benevolent."

"That doesn't matter to me.  If it saves Elizabeth..."

"Yes, yes," Stella sighed, rolling her eyes.  While he had done some changing, in essentials William Turner was much the same.  Still insipidly in love, and unwilling to consider that his dear fiancée might be able to save herself.

"What sort of man is this Beckett?" she asked after a moment.  The chill sensation she got whenever his name was mentioned boded no good; if she had to guess, she would imagine that he was going to be the chief nemesis in this little... fiasco.  She'd be willing to bet that he was the source of the darkness on the ocean as well.

William made a face.  "Short," was his concise reply.

That made Stella laugh.

"He's... smooth," Turner added on further thought.  "Powerful... has some manner of history with Captain Sparrow.  Ruthless."

"In all respects, then," Stella concluded during a pause, "a rather bad sort of gentleman."

"Yes."

"Unfortunate."

"Very much so."

"Since he seems intelligent as well, what does Lord Beckett offer in return?" Stella inquired.  "In return for the compass—a valuable artefact, I assure you—you get your fiancée's life.  What does he offer Sparrow?"  She smiled thinly.  "Or does Beckett simply intend you to walk up and steal it?"

William made a face—he seemed to agree that such a manoeuvre would be difficult, to say the least.  "Letters of marque... a full pardon.  Jack would be an English privateer."

Stella snorted.  "Hardly tempting for our dear Captain Sparrow," she noted.  "Especially if he and Beckett have a history.  Do you know what that history is?"

"No.  He said that both he and Jack have left their marks on each other... and I have a feeling that Beckett is responsible for the pirate brand on Jack's arm... but when I asked what mark Jack left on him, he didn't reply," William shrugged.

She fought back the urge to ask if William Turner was possessed of any subtlety at all, and contented herself with giving him a deadpan glare while she decided upon her next question.  She very much wanted to know if James was in any danger.  "These warrants... death is the penalty, is it not?  Straight-up death?  No trial... no pardons... no influence to the contrary?"

"That's the way of it," William replied unhappily.  "Governor Swann was unable to do anything.  Our fate, unless I can get the compass, is to be death by hanging.  The same fate from which we saved Jack."

"Poetic, in a morbid sort of way," she remarked darkly.  She did not like what this portended.  If Beckett was powerful enough to storm into the Caribbean and overrule the King's Governor to the point of hanging his only child, what else could he do before this was over?  She looked up and met William's dark eyes.  "Does he control Port Royal?"

Turner shook his head.  "No, Governor Swann is still in command."

She arched a brow.  "And how long do you expect that state of affairs to continue?"

The look on his face said it all.

"You seem to have gotten yourself into a fine situation, Mr. Turner," she commented.  "Welcome to the net."

"The net?" he repeated, perplexed.

"The net of people whose fates are somehow connected to that of Jack Sparrow," Stella replied glumly.  "Much like a massive knot."

"Knots can be untied," William pointed out.

"And what happens then to what the knot is supporting?"

The two of them shared a grim look.

"Well!" Stella announced after a moment, standing and moving to find her maps (a little worse for the wear after the massive tavern fight in December).  "I suppose there's no way to discover what this Beckett will do, save to find Jack Sparrow and let the dice fall where they may."

She handed William the quartz wand on a chain.  "Hold this, and think of our wayward captain."

While he charged the crystal, she arranged the maps, just as she had for James all those months ago.  "Beckett had a map," William noted.

"Had he?"

"A large one."

"I imagine he surrounds himself with many large things—probably a form of compensation," Stella sneered.

"He said the world is shrinking," William added contemplatively, indicating that this was a remark that had been niggling at him for a time.  "That Jack Sparrow is a dying breed."

Stella's movements stilled for a moment.  "He's right."

Once the stones were placed at the corners, she gestured for Turner to give her the wand.  Then she suspended it over the maps and let it swing.  Eventually it came to a stop, quivering on its point, on a Caribbean island a little south of the straits.

"That's where he is," Stella said simply.

William didn't remove his wide eyes from the inert crystal.  "That man was right, then," he muttered.  "Well, at least I'll know from whom to request passage."

"Be careful," Stella warned him.  "Be very careful.  Your path is fraught with danger—not only from Beckett—and more people will be affected by your actions that simply Miss Swann.  Some dark fate is fast approaching, and I cannot see what it is, or from which direction it comes," she whispered, almost to herself.  Then she reached out and tipped his chin up, forcing him to meet her eyes.  "Choose wisely, Mr. Turner.  You are more important than you know."

Then, all of a sudden, her lips started speaking without conscious control.  "Forgive him the whip.  He loves you."

Turner was nearly as surprised as she.  "What?"

Stella dropped her hand and sat back, startled but trying not to show it.  "Prophesy.  It comes, sometimes," she said lightly, appearing to brush it off, though she made a mental note to dissect the happening later.  "Rather like a sneeze, only not."

That seemed to satisfy the young Mr. Turner, and the manic energy buzzed around him once more.  When she showed him to the door, he gave her a courtly bow and said, "Thank you, Miss Bell.  You've been very helpful."

"Good luck, Mr. Turner.  You've been informative," Stella replied, trying to smile but failing miserably.  As he turned away, she called to him, "Remember, 'fate is not satisfied with inflicting one calamity'." At his uncomprehending look, she added, "Publilius Syrus.  A Roman author.  I have often found it to be true."

"With all due respect, Miss Bell, I hope you—and Syrus—are wrong," William replied.  Then he bowed again, and continued on his way back to town.

She watched him depart, through the graves, down the familiar paths towards the port town.  Yet it wasn't William Turner she was seeing... it was James Norrington.

Stella had known, the moment she'd touched him over her patchwork maps, that the coming of William Turner was the beginning of the end.  He brought changes in his wake, along with the tantalising energies he carried with him.  Normally she would not be adverse to change, but... she'd been content, these last few weeks—more content than she'd been since her mother's death.  Admittedly, she'd be even more content—happy, even—if she could get off the island and go somewhere else.

But James was going to leave soon, take himself off to meet his destiny somewhere in the vicinity of Jack Sparrow and William Turner... and she wasn't going to be with him.

A few months ago, it wouldn't have mattered to her.  Nothing but getting away from this place would have mattered to her, and the fact that James was the vehicle of that leaving would have been the most important factor in his significance to her.  But now?

James had become her friend—a true and faithful friend, who accepted her and her talents and her illegitimate origins.  That was the most important thing at this point, and it made his value to her inestimable.

Danger was coming.  Fate, destiny... change; all of it was dangerous, and the tension in the air along with the news of Lord Cutler Beckett hinted that the fulfilment of William Turner's potential would be even more dangerous than she had previously thought. There was no guarantee that, if James was away from her, he would emerge from the storm unharmed—especially not with some vicious little lord out for his blood.  And what good was a better life in polite society if her dearest friend was going to be hung once he re-entered it?

Feeling inexplicably wretched, Stella sat down, right on the threshold, and leaned up against the door frame, tucking her knees up underneath her as she stared unhappily out at the jungle.  She wanted James to come back, right now.

When he did return, he found Stella in the same position: sitting forlornly in the doorway, arms wrapped around herself, staring dully out at her surroundings.  She looked up when he approached, but she didn't seem any happier, even as her tense shoulders relaxed.

Setting down the basket of clove flowers, James sat down beside her and folded his long limbs under him.  "I got your cloves.  What's wrong?"

"It's going to rain," was her reply.

"That's not really 'wrong'," James pointed out, raising an eyebrow at her.  "More of an indication that you're upset."

Stella looked away.  "I had a visit today."

"And that makes you unhappy?  What, did you not get enough money?"

"No, it's not that... the majority of the payment was information."

"And the information you received distresses you."

"Yes."  She seemed to curl in on herself.  "Very much.  Although I can now put a name to the shadow which I had sensed previously, it doesn't change the fact that there is a shadow, it is growing, and it will impact me.  That, and the fact that this visitor was touched by fate, which can be—and generally is—depressing in and of itself."

"What does it mean, 'touched by fate'?"

"It means that he has a destiny... something preordained that he will do, or become," Stella explained dully.  "No matter what happens, or what he does or does not do, he will end up fulfilling that fate, one way or another.  If he knows about it beforehand, and tries to change it, he will find it fulfilled despite his actions.  No matter what, he will fulfil his destiny."

"Like Oedipus," James supplied quietly.  Stella nodded.  "That is, indeed, depressing."

"Especially since he's such a good man," Stella agreed glumly.  "I fear he won't deserve anything that happens to him."

She turned to look at James, and wondered if she should tell him that he would soon depart.  But she couldn't give him any details at all... she didn't know how or why or with whom he'd be leaving, just that he would.  Perhaps, given the lack of information, it was better just to leave be.  Though she was a great advocate of dealing with things as they were... she wanted to pretend a little longer that things would stay as they were.

"Are you safe here?" James eventually asked.

"As safe as anywhere,  I suppose," she replied.  "I'm tangled in this net, as well, so I'm not sure how many safe places there will be once the storm breaks."

"Should I go?   Would you be safer if I left?"

"What?  No!"  She glared at him in surprise.  "James, don't be absurd. I was a part of this before you arrived.  If you leave now, nothing will change... save me," she added softly.  "I don't think I could bear staying here if you left.  I absolutely despised it before, but you made it... bearable."

His dirty face creased in a melancholy smile.  "The feeling is mutual.  Had I never met you, this island would have killed me long before now," he said earnestly.

Stella laughed weakly.  "The island, and its inhabitants."

Silence descended for a moment.  "I never did thank you for saving me," he said softly.

She reached out and clasped his hand.  "I know."

James surprised her by putting his free arm around her shoulders in a loose embrace.  "Perhaps your storm will leave us be," he said hopefully, pulling her against him.

Stella was enjoying being comforted, so she didn't make a sarcastic remark about how very likely that was.  She just rested her head on his shoulder and resolved to cherish her friend for as long as he remained with her.  And they sat quietly, resting on each other, as they watched evening slowly fall.


	14. Stella Gratiae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which foresight and fate are under discussion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N: Well, I'm pumping these chapters out pretty quick. Actually, this splurge of updates was inspired by a dream I had about Stella et. all. I dreamed they were all in the old west and started a turf war with some cowboys. Eventually there was a big cowboy massacre. (This was all right, inasmuch as I had a dream the night before in which cowboys chopped off my feet with a guillotine, roasted them, and ate them in front of me, leaving me to bleed on the sand and protest indignantly that those were my feet.)_
> 
> _...Yeah. No real point to telling you that._
> 
> _Um, so here's chapter 13. It'll be short. Really short. More dialogue before the poo hits the fan, so to speak._
> 
> I mostly posted this note to record that dream. It was hella weird.

If he hadn't known both the lady in question and her feelings towards more tender emotions, James would've thought Stella was in love with him.

Ever since her fated visitor a week or so ago, she was acting very strangely.  She was secretive and evasive.  She kept looking at him with her black eyes hooded and soft.  She was as affectionate as she ever got—light touches on his shoulders and hands, as delicate as the breezes that hovered around her person.  She cleaned his wig without complaint.  She even stopped manipulating him into doing unpleasant chores by constantly bringing up his accidental upchucking onto her shoes.

"Stella, is something terrible going to happen to me?" he asked her one evening after she'd roasted a chicken for him.

"I don't know," she replied, clearly surprised.

"It's just... you're being... er, rather kind, especially for you."

"I can't be kind to you for no reason?"

James just looked flatly at her.  "Then you want something from me."

"Not really, no."

"Stella."

She looked down.   "You'll be leaving soon," she announced quietly.

All the colour washed from his face.  "Leaving what?  The land of the living?"

The scornful look in her black eyes calmed him only slightly.  "Don't be stupid.  Do you honestly think that if I'd foreseen your death I wouldn't fight the devil himself to keep you alive?  Or, at the very least, warn you," she grumbled.

"But what if there was nothing you could do?  If it was one of those... things related to an inescapable fate?" he fretted.

Stella rolled her eyes and grabbed his hand, turning it palm-up.   "For one, James, you're not touched by fate, so that sort of situation doesn't apply.  And for another... well, look."  She traced a line down the centre of his hand.  "This is your lifeline.  Yours ends here."  She tapped a point on the line near his thumb.  "And, if I had to guess—and we both know how accurate my guesses are—you are right here."  She tapped another point a little bit higher on the line.  "You have a little more life, yet."  She smiled weakly.  "I think."

"Your confidence is overwhelming."

"Life is a dangerous thing, James.  You could be caught by a stray bullet tomorrow."

"But you haven't foreseen my death."

"No."

"Oh.  Well, then.  That's good."  James recalled what inspired his anxieties.  "I'll be leaving soon, then?  The island?"

"Yes."

She didn't seem as happy about this as he would've imagined.  "But... that's good, isn't it?  I'm taking you off the island... if I'm leaving—"

"I won't be going with you," Stella interrupted.

He looked at her, startled.  "What?  Why?"

"It isn't time yet."

"Stella, don't be absurd.  You've wanted nothing more than to leave this place since you arrived.  Here's your chance," he insisted.

"Don't be absurd yourself," she shot back.  "If I left now, with whom you're leaving, I'd get killed."

"Do you know that for sure?"

"What have I told you about my propensity for knowing things for sure?"

"Then come with me!"  James rose from the table to take her by the shoulders.  "Starling, you told me once that I'd take you away from here.  I’m offering to.  If I have to leave, come with me.  We can look for a life somewhere else."

"And what would that do to my already-tattered reputation?  James, it's not time yet."

"Make your own time," he pressed, shaking her gently.  "Don't be bound by these... these superstitions and mystical pointers.  Grasp what you want with both hands."

Stella smiled sadly, and he was surprised to see her black eyes swim with tears.  "How piratical of you," she accused him playfully.

"Hush, you," he returned, releasing her shoulders.  They stood, less than three feet apart, facing each other in the middle of Stella's main room.

"Starling?" she eventually said, arching a brow.

James flushed—he hadn't meant for that to slip out, but since he'd been calling his friend that in the privacy of his thoughts for some time...

He shrugged.  "It suits you.  Just like a starling, you are birdlike and occasionally annoying," he quipped.  He didn’t feel like explaining his childhood pet at the moment.

Stella laughed lightly.  "As nicknames go, it isn't bad.  What shall I call you, then?  Jim?" she teased.

"Try it and I'll shoot you."

Silence descended again, James' offer still hanging in the air between them.  Both knew it would have to be addressed.

Stella was the first to break the quiet.  "I appreciate the offer, James.  I truly do.  More than you can know.  But I can't leave yet."

"Why?" he asked, feeling inexplicably disappointed.

"It isn't time."

"What does that even mean, Stella?" he demanded harshly.

"You wouldn't understand."  She apparently noticed that he was about to loose his temper, so she stepped closer and laid the palm of her hand flat on his chest.  "Trust me.  Please?  This is something you cannot understand, but trust me when I say that it is not yet time for me to depart."

"Does that mean you were wrong?  That I won't bring you off Tortuga?" James asked, trying to understand despite her words.

"No, you will.  My sense of that has never waned.  Besides, Tia told me that, and she's never wrong," she added, smiling wryly.  "And that's also how and why I can guarantee your life.  You haven't yet taken me away, but since you will, ergo you must live to do it."

"It sounds... woolly," he demurred sceptically.

"Sometimes these things are."

He placed his hand over the one resting on his chest.  "Then why do you depend on them?"

"Because they're what I know.  They've never let me down before."

"Neither have I," he insisted.

She smirked, and he instantly knew what was coming.  "No, but you did vomit on my shoes."

James rolled his eyes and turned away from her in exasperation.  "Oh, for God's sake, Stella..."

She laughed her light, bell-like laugh that came and went as swift as the wind.  He sensed her approach, and felt her place her hand on his arm.  "I do want to leave this place.  I do.  But now is not the time—not if I want to make land anywhere else."  She paused.  "When the time comes... you will return for me, will you not?"

James turned to look down at her, and met her clear black eyes.  "I will come back for you.  I promise."

"You are a good friend," she told him, smiling.

"As are you, though I confess that you vex me terribly at times," he replied wryly.  He paused.  "This is why you are so... er..."

"Yes," Stella replied, rolling her eyes and thankfully saving him from finding a suitable adjective.  Then she looked down, suddenly seeming very small and sad.  "I will miss you when you leave."

He couldn't think of any reply to that which wouldn't make him sound like an ass, so he merely gathered her into his arms and held her.

* * *

Later—much later—after the house had gone to bed, Stella padded out into the main room where James slept.  He had claimed the wall by the bookshelves; all his things (few though they were) were stored there, and she had made sure to string one of her sheets on a rope to make a curtain, of sorts, in order to give him at least the illusion of privacy.

It was towards that curtain that she silently moved; her feet were bare, so she made no noise.  Once she pushed the muslin aside, her friend was revealed, sprawled on his makeshift bed and fast asleep.  She knelt on the floor beside him, her white nightgown pooling around her as she reached out to place a gentle hand on James' unshaven cheek.

To be honest, Stella wasn't entirely sure what she was doing out here.  She had James had an unspoken rule that, once they decided to retire, Stella would remain in the bedroom, and James would remain in the main room.  It was one of their submissions to propriety—something she generally agreed with wholeheartedly.  So what was she doing here now?

She wasn't sure if she wanted James to awaken, or remain asleep.  She didn't know what she'd do if he did happen to wake.  She didn't know why she was touching him.  And she certainly didn't know why she was leaning closer, nearly touching their noses together.  Perhaps she meant to kiss him... she wasn't entirely sure.  All she knew was that she had an overwhelming desire to be near him.

But as Stella leaned closer, her loose black hair slid over her shoulder, and fell in a sheet around their heads.  Several tresses landed on James' face, tickling his skin and making his features twitch. He shifted slightly in his sleep, and murmured something, his breath mingling with Stella's as she hovered over him.

But only because Stella was so very close did she hear what he murmured...

It was "Elizabeth."

She jerked away, snatching back her hand as if burnt.  Before she quite knew what she was about (but after all, wasn't that the reason she was out there anyway, leaning over her best friend like a prince from a fairytale, lips a hair's-breadth apart, as though kissing him would change the world, make the sky melt and reform their lives into something like unto those silly fantasies they'd concocted one afternoon?) she was back in her bedroom, door shut, breathing coming quick after her dash across the room, and feeling inexplicably like she'd been hit in the chest.

"Fool," she whispered to herself (why not get back into the habit of talking to herself?  After all, he will be leaving, and she'll be alone in this house again).  "Fool.  What were you expecting?  He loves her.  Loves Elizabeth Swann, the lovely, spirited lady."

What was left unspoken was the comparison.  If Elizabeth Swann was the lovely, spirited lady, then Stella Bell was the unattractive, bitter witch, the foil to her perfection... and ever the second in James Norrington's heart.

For some reason, that hurt.  It stung and ached and cut all at once, and Stella was surprised to find tears spilling from her eyes.  She almost never cried—not unless she was in unbelievable pain.  She could count on her two hands the amount of times she had shed tears in the last decade, and usually there was a death involved.  Indeed, the last time she could recall weeping was the death of her mother.

_But since the evening had already been full of strange and unsure actions, why not weep for no reason?_ she thought viciously, curling up under the bedclothes and allowing the tears to fall.

After all, Stella would never admit that she might possibly, maybe, perhaps be weeping over a man, and the fact that he loved another.

* * *

When in the morning, James was awakened by the sunlight shining through the wide-open curtains of his little partition, he was slightly confused; he always made sure to close them after retiring to sleep.  But he merely shrugged and supposed that either the wind blew the curtains open (not an unlikely happening when inhabiting the same dwelling as Stella Bell) or that he had perhaps kicked them open in his sleep.

And if Stella was a bit colder in her manner, he simply attributed it to his coming departure.  There was, after all, no reason to connect her to the open curtain.


	15. Stella Valentis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jack Sparrow returns to Tortuga.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N: Wow... here I am. One chapter, so to speak, of this story is ending. Part of me never expected to get this far. I'm... shocked. And kinda proud of myself._
> 
> _This one was a fun chapter to write... and I've been waiting to do so for ages. It turned out to be kinda sad... for me, anyway, after having to bid farewell to a bunch of my own good friends when I left England. Alas._
> 
> _Also, my work schedule has gone mad, so don’t expect much in the way of updates for a bit. Sorry, but that's real life (and doesn't it suck?).._
> 
> Alas for real life, although I didn't know a lot about it at that time.

_I shouldn't have told him._

This thought had been echoing in Stella's mind for the past few days—days in which James had been falling back onto his old habits of haunting the port town and drinking far too much.  Since she'd told him he'd be leaving soon, he was desperate to locate the means of his departure.

Not that she could blame him, really—she'd done the same thing when Tia had told her the means of her departure would soon appear.  She felt like a hypocrite, but she couldn't stop that selfish wish: _I shouldn't have told him_.

After all, Stella had known she was going to loose her friend... she just hadn't expected it to happen until after he'd left the island.

She sighed deeply, cocking her head to listen to a voice on the breeze.  _99 souls..._

"Jack Sparrow.  You ass," she muttered, shaking her head and going to collect her hat and gather a host of wind-knots for all directions.  She'd be going into town tonight to help sort out a mess of his own making... all the while getting even more tangled in the net.

99 souls...

And if he thought for one second that one of those souls was going to be her friend, he had another thing coming.

* * *

 

Before entering _The Faithful Bride_ in an effort to purvey the souls needed to wriggle his way free of the betentacled grasp of Davy Jones and his equally slimy and horrible beastie, Captain Jack Sparrow pulled Pintel and Ragetti to the side.

"Now you two lads have a very important task," he announced.  Something occurred to him.  "Well, two tasks.  Most importantly, you have to get the rum."  They moved to dash off and fulfil his request immediately, but Jack snapped out, "Not at this particular moment!  Less important things first.  I need you to go into the jungle," and he pointed in the pertinent direction, "and bring Black Stella into town.  You do know who Black Stella is?"

Pintel nodded, but Ragetti looked confused.  " Y'know, the one what Cap'n Barbossa wanted to marry. Made us go all 'round the colonies to get her flowers or summat," Pintel explained to his one-eyed companion.

Ragetti suddenly looked comprehending, but Jack's kohl-lined eyes widened even as he furrowed his brow. "Hector wanted to marry Black Stella? Was he mad?" he asked incredulously. Something occurred to him. "Though that'd be one way to avoid castration."

"Oh, was she the little girl who... did the thing with the wind?" Ragetti asked in a confidential tone, as if the entirety of the island wasn't already aware of what Black Stella could do.

Jack felt perturbed at being ignored—he was the Captain, after all!  "And it is for that reason that I wish you to extend Miss Bell an invitation to come speak with me at her earliest convenience tonight, since I have need of her services but, seeing as we are lacking in the category of having a heading, will need her on hand before purchasing her wee breezes."  He paused.  "Only... make it sound... more polite than I... just did."

The two bumbling pirates stared at him in confusion.

Jack rolled his eyes.  "Just go," he said, flapping his hands.  "Get Stella into town by whatever means necessary.  Beggin', grovellin'... promise her the moon and the stars and half the swag in me holds if need be."  The joke would be on her, though, since he didn't have very much swag in his holds at the moment.

As the two started off, though, something occurred to him.  "Wait!" he called, as he fumbled in his coat pocket.  Pintel and Ragetti skittered to a stop.  He found the pouch he was looking for... it wasn't very full, but hopefully Stella would take it as a good-faith payment.

Captain Sparrow knew he was taking... something of a risk by attempting to persuade Black Stella into coming to him instead of the other way around, but he was on something of a deadline.

"Give this to her," he commanded.  "Just get her here, somehow."

With that, he whirled on his heel and sauntered into the tavern, prepared to save his neck by any means possible.

* * *

 It had taken Pintel and Ragetti almost an hour to find Stella's house.  While Pintel knew who Black Stella was, he didn't know where she lived, which put them into the position of having to ask for directions.  Eventually a toothless old black woman pointed them down the path through the forest and through the graveyard.

"Why's she live in a graveyard?" Ragetti wondered, looking at the graves as they edged around the clearing, toward the light shining through the windows of the little house he could just about see through the trees.

Pintel shrugged.  "It's nice and quiet out here," he offered.

Ragetti supposed his friend had a point.  They made it to the dooryard of the house without tripping on any of the gravestones—he'd made sure to go all the way around the edge, so's not to commit any sacrilege.  He wasn't entirely sure if it was blaspheming to trip on graves, but figured he probably shouldn't take the chance, either.

They came to a stop a few feet from the door.  Was there an etiquette to knocking on witches' doors?

They just looked at it, before Pintel glanced at Ragetti.  "You knock," he said, elbowing his companion in the back.

"You do it!" Ragetti hissed back.

"No, you do it!  You're taller!"

"So?  You knew who she was!"

"And I asked for the directions, so you should knock!"

The door they were arguing over suddenly swung open, startling them something terrible.  Golden light spilled out of the house, making seeing who was in the doorway a little difficult. "I daresay knocking is hardly necessary, with all the noise you're making."

Pintel rubbed his eyes a bit, but straightened up and said, "Are you Black Stella?"

The girl—it was a girl, Ragetti could see—smiled in a very cold sort of way and replied, "You must not be familiar with Tortuga."

"I’m a pirate, poppet.  Of course I'm familiar with Tortuga."

"Then you must not be very familiar with me, since otherwise you would know that I tend to castrate the men who neglect to show me proper courtesy."

Her voice had gone as sharp as a knife at the last bit, and Pintel made a nervous sort of whimpering sound and unconsciously reached to grasp at Ragetti's ragged sleeve.

Ragetti couldn't let her castrate his mate, so he plucked up his courage and stepped forward.  "'Scuse us, Miss.  We was sent to you by Captain Sparrow," he said softly.

The girl turned to look at him.  She was almost pretty, with long black hair and big black eyes, but something about her scared him a little.  "I do not believe I've had the pleasure of making your acquaintance," she noted, and her voice had lost the cruel edge.

Ragetti bowed his head—he remembered that sometimes fine captains and their ladies liked lip service paid to upper-class manners.  He didn't know much about etiquette or suchlike, but he could be polite.  "I'm called Ragetti, Miss."

She curtsied slightly.  "I am Miss Stella Bell, known to the more uncouth inhabitants of the island as Black Stella.  You may call me Miss Bell," she finished pointedly, glaring subtly at Pintel, who just smiled nervously and bobbed a little bow.  "And what does our intrepid Captain Sparrow want with me, pray tell?"

Ragetti jabbed Pintel in the chest with his elbow.  "He sent us here, Miss, to give you something..." which Pintel had finally produced from a pocket.  He handed it quickly to Ragetti, who presented it to Miss Bell with another bow.  "He also wanted us to... extend an invitation to come speak with him in town."

Miss Bell arched a thin black eyebrow over an equally black eye.  "He did, did he?" she drawled.

Ragetti wondered if this was what the mouse felt when a big, hungry cat toyed with it.  Miss Bell's black eyes were fixed relentlessly on his, watching and measuring.  He remembered Cap'n Sparrow's instructions to beg and grovel if needed—was it needed?  How should he go about it?

"You needn't beg." Miss Bell's voice cut through his thoughts like a draft through the outhouse door.  It was a little more gentle than before, and as he looked up at her face he saw the corners of her lips curve just a little.  "Never fear, I shall save my ire for the target it deserves.  Allow me to fetch my hat, and I will accompany you back to the town—if, Mr. Ragetti, you would be so good as to escort me."

"O-o'course, Miss," Ragetti stammered.

Miss Bell nodded regally, before turning and going back into her house.  Pintel and Ragetti shared another look in the dim light spilling from the doorway.  "Good job," Pintel whispered quietly.

Ragetti just smiled weakly.  "Bit scary, innit she?" he asked.

"Worse than that obeah woman, even," Pintel agreed.

Both shivered in unison at the memory of Tia Dalma, and her house with snakes and eyeballs and other unpleasant things.  Pintel figured that Tia Dalma had never threatened to castrate him, which made her better than Miss Bell by a long shot.  Ragetti had decided that Tia's charming, stained, gregarious smile and her mysterious yet sparkling eyes were much less frightening than Miss Bell's pale smirk and her cold black gaze.

"Bloody witches," he muttered.

"'Least this one's got no eyeballs in her house," Pintel offered, craning his neck to peer through the door.

"By that comment, I judge you've paid a visit to Tia."  Miss Bell's measured tones preceded her appearance in the doorway, having donned a black cloak and a straw hat and slung a bag over her shoulder.

Pintel and Ragetti stood at attention.  "Yes, Miss," Ragetti replied, looking nervously over at Pintel, who smiled weakly in encouragement, when she turned her back on them to lock her door.

"And how is the estimable Miss Dalma?" she inquired, wafting over to Ragetti's side.

"Er... she's fine," Ragetti replied, after a confused glance at Pintel.

"I haven't spoken to her in quite some time," Miss Bell remarked as she looked expectantly at Ragetti, who quickly (but apprehensively) offered her his arm.  She placed a fragile white hand in the crook of his elbow and led them around the graveyard and towards the town.  "I should remedy that.  But do tell, my good sirs, what manner of mad undertaking Captain Sparrow has entangled himself in this time."

"Er... summat with Davy Jones," Ragetti muttered.

The fingers on his arm tightened.  "Davy Jones?" she repeated, tendrils of incredulous horror sneaking into her voice.  "99 souls..."

"How'd you know about that?" Pintel blurted.

"Witch," she replied dismissively. "Do you mean to tell me that Jack Sparrow has made a deal with Davy Jones that somehow involves 99 souls?" she demanded, using her grip on Ragetti's arm to pull him to a stop.

"Aye, ma'am," Ragetti squeaked.

"And how do these souls enter into the bargain?" she demanded, digging in her nails.

Ragetti flinched back, trying to move away.  But her grip was tight.  "Er..."

"Cap'n Jack wants to trade 'em for his," Pintel supplied helpfully, seeing his friend's distress.

Ragetti got his wish; Miss Bell let go, spinning to face Pintel in a whirlwind of cloth and black hair.  "Does he now?  Mmm, I think Captain Sparrow and I are going to have words."  Her voice got very, very cold.  "Intent, bloody words."

Pintel and Ragetti gulped in unison.

* * *

 Her two escorts abandoned her at the door of _The Faithful Bride_ , a tavern which had lately been torn apart by an extensive brawl, babbling something about rum and bobbing up and down like crazed birds.  Stella tried valiantly not to laugh—she had scared them but good!

_James is right; I'm a bad person_ , she thought amusedly to herself.

Jack Sparrow wasn't in the tavern—he had been, but he wasn't now.  Stella grew even more vexed... he had the nerve to summon her to town, and then lacked the good manners to meet her there.  The words she intended to have with Captain Sparrow grew even sharper in her mind.

_Sharp, pointed, painful words, Captain._

She eventually discerned that Sparrow had headed for the docks after the fight broke out, and that was the direction in which Stella turned her increasingly aggravated steps.  The townspeople scurried out of her way as she came, winds swirling about her she stormed towards _The Black Pearl_ , wafting her skirts around her legs and slamming the shutters against the buildings as she passed.

The dock where it was berthed was bustling with activity; Stella couldn't pinpoint Sparrow in the throng.  But he'd called her...

"Jack Sparrow!" Stella hissed when she came to a stop on the bobbing pier.  A tendril of breeze carried her voice to his ears—and, apparently, to others', since the hustle and bustle of the masses paused for a moment.

His head popped out from behind a crate.  "My dear Miss Bell!" he cried joyously, swaggering over to where she stood.  "I'm so very glad you came."

He staggered back a step when Stella jerked her hand up to point an accusing finger at his face.  "You had the nerve to summon me here, Captain Sparrow," she spat, making his title a curse.  "What is it you want?"

"Wind, of course," he replied nervously, eyeing the finger warily.

"The usual procedure for the purchase of wind is for the customer to come to me," Stella pointed out coldly.

"Yes, well..." Jack hemmed.  "I didn't have a heading until recently, and I'm in something of a hurry..."

"Yes, I imagine Davy Jones is not the most patient of creatures," Stella drawled.

Jack attempted to smile charmingly, but the charisma was drowned in his unease.  "I don't know how you get your information, love..."

Stella rolled her eyes, but before they could fall back to Jack, she caught sight of a dishevelled figure standing at the rail.  _James... you found Sparrow at last._

She stepped closer to Jack, and placed her index finger at the hollow of his throat.  "I have my ways... the same ways that informed me you intend to save your own soul by trading 99 others in your stead," she murmured, yet she knew that he would hear every word.  "Captain Jack Sparrow... I'll have you know that there's a soul very dear to me on board your ship right now.  And if you even think of trading him to Davy Jones, the Captain of _The Flying Dutchman_ will become the least of your worries."  And she glanced significantly downwards.

Sparrow's tanned skin went pale under the protective layer of dirt, and he skittered backwards, trying to subtly shield his "bits" with a hand.   "Well, then... it's fortunate that the plan involving said souls is no longer... er, viable.  I've got a new plan!  A better plan!" he announced, trying for a smile that only really conveyed nausea.

"Which is?" Stella inquired.  At Jack's apparent reluctance to speak, she made her voice even colder.  "Bear in mind, Captain, that I will not bend the wind anywhere near your direction unless I am reassured that my friend is in no danger."

Jack gulped.  "Well, er... having sent young William Turner after the key, I intend to have his fiancée lead me to the chest in which is locked the heart of Davy Jones so I can use it as leverage in a deal to make him let me keep the _Pearl_ and my soul and avoid being eaten by the Kraken."

"Kraken?"  Stella's arms jerked forward like a snake striking, and she grabbed his wrists, brining them up to peer at his palms.  "I don't see the spot."

"And I'm very thankful for that," Jack muttered.

She narrowed her black eyes.  "This plan, though it pains me to admit it, is slightly better than your previous one," Stella said icily.  "It is foolhardy and insane, but a little less extensive in the category of collateral damages."

"So, does that mean you'll give me wind?  Er... sell me wind?  Please?" he wheedled.

"Very well," she ground out through clenched teeth.  She wanted nothing more than to hex the selfish, scheming pirate until he bled, but she couldn't.  Well, she could... but she wasn't meant to. "In which direction would you like this wind to blow?"

He told her; she gave him a handful of the knotted yarn; he gave her money.  A goodly amount of money, for all her pain and vexation.  And before he could turn, she added, "And I also request a moment of time to say farewell."

"Farewell?" Jack repeated, looking confused.  "Um... farewell, then, I suppose," he said, offering her a ringed hand.

Stella just _looked_ at him.  "Not to  you," she sneered.  "To him."  And she gestured around the form of Captain Jack Sparrow to where the muddy, bedraggled form of James Norrington stood tentatively on the gangplank.  A smaller, more slender form hovered behind him—Stella knew her instantly as Elizabeth Swann.

Jack turned to peer over his shoulder, and looked surprised to she who she meant.  "Him?  He's the soul very dear to you?" he asked incredulously.  He leaned closer, as if to impart a confidence... then leaned back very quickly as Stella glared venomously at him.  "Er, you do know he's in love with yon bonny lass," he added, jerking a thumb towards Elizabeth.

"I know that," she snapped.  "I'm not in love with him, you idiot.  He's my friend—not, I expect, that you have any notion of what that is," she added poisonously.  "And I'd like to say goodbye before you drag him off on your madcap venture, so be a darling, Jack Sparrow, and sod off!"

Captain Sparrow didn't need to be told twice—Stella was in a rare temper tonight if she was cursing!  He turned around and swaggered very, very quickly towards his ship, muttering, "She wants to talk to you, mate," as he passed Norrington, who rolled his eyes and shook his muddy head, but after a nod to Elizabeth, walked down the gangplank and onto the dock.  He stopped before Stella, and they stood in silence.

Now that the moment was upon her, she didn't know what to say.

* * *

 "I don't I can fix your wig this time," Stella announced after a short pause.

James ducked his head ruefully, and scratched at the mud caked onto his face.  "Likely not," he agreed.  He paused, then said, "I understand why you're staying here, now, and I support you entirely.  Given a choice, I wouldn't want to sail with Sparrow either."

She laughed faintly.  "But you will—and are.  For her."

"Not only for her," James protested, but it sounded weak to his ears.  He braced himself for a scathing comment, and was surprised when Stella merely placed a spidery finger to his lips—the only part of him that was clean.

"My dear friend... though your destiny is entwined with that of Elizabeth Swann, it isn't joined," she told him gently.  "Do not forget this, or she'll break your heart again."

He smiled feebly, knowing intellectually that Stella was right, but still feeling the sting of her words.  "I'll remember," he promised.  "Any other pearls of advice?"

"Other than don't trust Sparrow, which I'm sure you already know?" Stella quipped dryly.  They had a slight chuckle, before she furrowed her brow.  "Be careful.  There's a warrant for your arrest."

That shocked him.  "What?"

"There's a warrant... for your part in Sparrow's escape, the East India Trading Company has a warrant for your arrest and death.  Avoid them, if you can," Stella explained.

James rubbed his face, causing the dried mud to crack and flake off.  "How lovely... I'm a wanted criminal."

"But if you play your cards right, you needn’t stay that way," Stella said pointedly, arching an eyebrow.  "This—Sparrow's venture—has the potential to be a great opportunity for you... or a grave mischance.  Choose carefully—but stay alive above all," she bid intently.  "Stay alive."

"I will.  And I'll return for you, I promise," he replied, equally intense.  "Somehow, I'll return.  Be safe until then.  Hold off the storm if you can, but take cover if you cannot."  Suddenly he remembered something, and put a hand into a muddy pocket.  "Here... I got you something... a memento, if you will," he muttered, feeling embarrassed but not entirely sure why.

He pressed it into her hand, and she used a corner of her cloak to wipe away the dirt his fingers had left.  It was a comb, carved of dark wood, set with three stars inlaid with mother of pearl.  James had seen it two days past, and immediately known that the shimmering stars would look lovely against Stella's dark hair.  A foolish romantic impulse, and one his friend would probably laugh at... but he couldn't think of any other way to thank her for everything, and she looked so desolate at being left alone on the island.

Had he been sailing with anyone but Sparrow, James would've made another case for her accompaniment—anything to take the miserable look off her pale face that she was trying very hard to hide.  But as it was... well, he was a little glad she would be remaining behind.  He didn't want her anywhere near Jack Sparrow (although he'd had a good laugh over how obviously intimidating Jack found her).

She reached up and tucked the comb into her braids, just above her left ear.  He'd been right; it did look becoming in her black hair.  "Thank you, James," she said softly, smiling a smile that didn't quite hide the sadness in her eyes.  "I'll miss you."

"And I you," he replied.

For a long moment, they just stood there, gazing at each other.  He wasn't sure what Stella was pondering, but he was thinking back to the first part of their acquaintance.  How much she'd changed!  Well, not changed—she was still an ice-hearted witch when it suited her.  However, it never suited her any longer to be thusly with him; perhaps that was the change.  Leaving that black-tongued bitch wouldn't have pained him one jot—he would've been glad to see the last of her.  But saying farewell to his sharp-witted friend, who happened to turn her bitter gall on others?

"You made it better," he blurted suddenly.  "I'd be dead but for you, Stella."

She smiled at him, warmly and openly, and for one fleeting moment she was beautiful.  "You were worth it," she told him.

" _Vale_ , my friend," James replied, touching her cheek lightly with his dirty hand.

"Oi!  Ex-commodore!  Move it!"

The shout from the deck of the _Pearl_ ruined the moment, and James closed his eyes in exasperation.  "I have to go," he said apologetically.

"Then go," Stella replied, stepping back.

As they cast off, he stood at the rail.  He saw his friend raise her hand in farewell, and the wind swelled to fill the sails and send them on their way.

"Farewell, and fare well," came a whisper on the breeze.

James remained at the rail until the dock had blurred into the night, staring back at a place and a person he hadn't ever thought he'd miss, until the port town of Tortuga was just a smudge of light in the darkness.


	16. Stella Solitudae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which solitude descends.

It was every bit as bad as she'd thought it'd be.  Tortuga without James was hellish.

Rationally, she knew her circumstances were not different than they'd been before he arrived.  But after having a friend to ease the burden of her solitary life, and then having to bid him farewell while she remained behind (even though she had chosen to)... it hurt.  More than she expected it to.

Nor did the remembrance of his promise to return ease the ache in her chest; the knowledge that her time on Tortuga was ending helped a little... but not much.

Quite frankly, Stella was lonely.

It wasn't a new condition—she'd been lonely in one way or another all her life.  But never before had she been so utterly isolated as she was on Tortuga, and never before had she made a friend who was so very dear to her as James was.  Even beyond his acceptance of everything, he struggled to understand things about a world in which he had no part.  That struggle was both flattering and humbling.

And besides the profound appreciation Stella had for him, James was intelligent and witty, kind and noble—though those latter two traits were hidden cunningly under a layer of bitterness nearly as thick as the one that hid her better qualities (and she was fairly sure she still had some... somewhere).

She wondered how he was.  Was he safe?  Was Sparrow treating him well?  Had he fallen back in love with Elizabeth, or had he taken her advice and guarded his heart?

The usual distractions were attempted in an effort to assuage the empty ache his absence had caused.  Her clothing had never been in such well repair, her stores of herbs and oils were full to brimming, and she'd had a long chat with Tia.

Tia, of course, was aware of the net drawing ever closer around them and the niggling unease that was caused by Lord Beckett.  She was also blithely unconcerned about these things.  "T'ings will happen as dey happen," she'd said lightly.  "And dey will happen soon."  And even though she couldn't see Tia's exotically lovely face, Stella could hear the inky smile in her voice.  "Your love, he come for you soon.  Store up your bitterness and bile, Stella—you goin' need it."

"Heaven knows I have plenty of both, and a willingness to loose them on anyone," Stella had replied.  "James always said I was a little too free with my spleen.  And I don't love him," she'd added defensively.

Tia's carefree laugh was her only response in regards to that declaration.  "Farewell, Stella Bell.  I will not see or speak t' you again for some time.  Be careful, chile.  Our time be endin', and we need fight for a place in dis new worl'."

* * *

Elizabeth wasn't the same as he remembered.  Oh, she was every bit as lovely and spirited as his memories of her, but there was something... harder and more ruthless in her that she had gained since the last time they'd been together.

_Though your destiny is entwined with that of Elizabeth Swann, it isn't joined.  Do not forget this, or she'll break your heart again._

Stella's words kept surfacing in his thoughts, but as they got closer to wherever the thing Elizabeth wanted most in the world made the compass point, he felt less and less in danger of a broken heart courtesy of Miss Swann.  The love he felt for her was like dried rose petals: brittle and dead, and with only a lingering fragrance to hint at what had once been a lush bloom.  Elizabeth was more pirate than lady now—and anyway, he just couldn't respect anyone who lusted so obviously after Jack Sparrow.

Jack Sparrow... James still hated him intensely.  But he was more useful alive than dead at the moment.  He was still waiting for the proverbial "opportune moment" in which to commandeer the pardon hidden in Sparrow's coat.  After all, Jack would hardly appreciate it properly—he'd said it himself: "As if I could be bought for such a low price."

But for James, the tiny leather folio was his ticket to getting his life back—or at least an approximation of it.

If he had that folio, and the pardon therein, the warrant for his arrest would be taken care of (it had been something that had worried him slightly, since he hadn't seen a way around it).  And though being a privateer wasn't as respectable and noble as a position in the navy, it was certainly better than being a drunk and dirty ex-commodore sailing under Jack Sparrow. 

_But if you play your cards right, you needn’t stay that way._

If he was a privateer, he could achieve some measure of respectability again.  He could have a life back in polite society.  Those silly fantasies he and Stella had concocted weeks ago needn't remain solely in the realm of the imagination.  If he had those leaves of paper, he could make something real out of those figments.

But James wondered if he shouldn't worry about this increasingly willingness to think in Sparrow's terms and do anything and everything to get back his life... of course, he then reminded himself that he'd once worried the same way about his rapport with Stella—and look how well that had turned out!

 James missed her.  He hadn't expected to miss her as intensely as he did... but he had spent nearly every day for the past few months in her company, and he'd gotten used to her scathing commentary on life, her keen intuition, her equally sharp counsel, and having someone intelligent to talk to who wasn't completely indifferent or didn't wish him dead—indeed, someone who strongly preferred him alive and well.  She'd also opened his eyes to some of the more esoteric aspects of life, and he felt uneasy dealing with them when she wasn't around.

(The heart of Davy Jones and all associated with it fell under the heading of "esoteric aspects", and consequently most of his days aboard the _Black Pearl_ were rather uncomfortable.)

More than anything, James wished he'd been more selfish and made a more emphatic insistence for Stella's presence at his side.  He wanted her advice.  He knew that he was going to make a play for the folio and Beckett's pardon (and anything else he could get), but his plan still had a few kinks and he wished Stella was around to help him work them out.  And if the _Flying Dutchman_ turned out to be real... if Sparrow wasn't leading them all on a merry goose chase down to hell...

And as it turned out, he wasn't.  It was a historic moment: Jack Sparrow had been telling the truth.  (But only about some things; as usual, Sparrow had lied about a host of other things, so James was really only mildly surprised.)

The heart of Davy Jones was real, the compass did, in fact, point to what a person wanted most, and Stella had been right in warning him to guard his heart.  When William Turner staggered onto the beach and engaged in a passionate embrace with Elizabeth, he'd felt the old pain... the gnawing, empty ache in his heart and the curious sensation of his stomach dropping out.  No matter what he told himself, there were obviously some lingering sentiments for Elizabeth—quiet and hidden after all this time, but still tender and easily hurt.

He remembered Stella's words for what seemed like the hundredth time since he'd left Tortuga:  _Though your destiny is entwined with that of Elizabeth Swann, it isn't joined.  Do not forget this, or she'll break your heart again._

Watching the woman he'd loved kiss the man she'd jilted him for, James knew that his friend was right.  Perhaps they were tangled in the net together, but that was the closest he would ever get to Elizabeth Swann.  She would never love him as he had loved her... or perhaps loved her still.  He wasn't sure anymore.

What he was sure of was this: the folio and the Heart of Davy Jones would get him what he wanted, and he'd be damned before he saw Turner or Sparrow take his chance at redemption.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N part deux: Like I said, short (and I worked my way all the way through the latter half of DMC in about four pages. Wow. Go me). But kinda fun to write. Not too much dialogue, though—I was trying to show how isolated the two of them are, both from each other and the people around them. Did it work?_
> 
> _James and Stella are getting ready to fight for what they want—that's when the real fun starts. :D_
> 
> I still feel somewhat guilty about having a chapter with no dialogue. That's the kind of thing my narrative tutor always warned me about.


	17. Stella Cordis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which James Norrington struggles with weirdness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this note was left in 2008-ish? Maybe?
> 
>  
> 
> _A/N: And now we're kind of out of DMC... or at least on our way out. At the end._
> 
>  
> 
> _Also (I had to write this down, once I noticed it), has anyone else noted that, in Tia Dalma's shack, when Will first sets down the drawing of the key, Jack has a hat? And that hat is Barbossa's hat—s'got the feathers and the raggedy brim and everything. It's totally Barbossa's hat._
> 
>  
> 
> _...Yeah, I just noticed that. And I'm all, "They're going heavy on the foreshadowing, innit?" And you all are probably all like, "Stoopid, you never noticed that before now?"_
> 
>  
> 
> _Well, shut up. ;p_

James felt... uneasy.

Actually, as far as adjectives went, "uneasy" wasn't really doing justification to how superlatively weird his situation had become.

 _Life keeps doing this to me_ , he thought sourly.  _My circumstances used to be normal._

And now he was sitting in a battered dinghy in the middle of the ocean, being baked by the midday sun, while a heart that didn't belong to him thumped against his chest.

Well... at least he had the pardon, and the letters of marque.  He'd taken the leather wallet out of Sparrow's coat before he'd taken the Heart, and filled out his name with a stub of pencil he'd found near the dinghy before setting out to sea.  At least, that way, he wouldn't be immediately shot when he got picked up.

The plan was this: he'd go out to sea, and get picked up by a ship (he hoped).  Then they'd take him to Port Royal—or a port in which he could get passage to Port Royal—where he'd meet with Beckett (he hoped).  And then, with the pardon (and the Heart of Davy Jones as a bargaining chip), he'd negotiate for anything and everything he could get (of which he hoped there would be plenty).

...There was a lot of hoping involved in the plan.  But it was the best he had.  At least he hadn't been killed by those... things—those half-man, half sea-creature things that were, apparently, the crewmen on _The Flying Dutchman_.  It had looked to be an option, then, when he'd had the chest in his possession.  But he had the contents of the chest, so the chest itself wasn't really worth fighting (and, consequently, dying) for.

Stella's words had come to him, then.  _Stay alive above all.  Stay alive._

Sound advice, that.  He'd taken it... he'd given up the chest to the _Dutchman's_ crew.  James tried not to think about what else he might be giving up... truthfully, something had to give or he'd go mad.  He couldn't endure remaining as he was (that is, remaining under Sparrow's command) and still dwell in the realm of sanity.  He wanted to be back as he was, before Sparrow ever showed on the scene... wanted it so badly that every fibre of his being started to quiver when he thought about it.  It was so close that he could taste it, like lightning in the air.

That almost made up for the truly disconcerting sensation of having a surplus heart tucked into his coat.

He wondered how a person managed to cut out their own heart.  James thought about it for a while, and made a mental note to ask Stella about it the next time he saw her.  If anyone would know, it'd be her. And Lord, did he wish she was here now.

Well... not here, here—not sitting in a tiny, bobbing boat in the scorching heat.  But near enough to ask about all this magical weirdness he felt very ill-equipped to deal with, and near enough to have helped him come up with a better plan than the one he was currently stuck in the middle of.  And, most importantly, near enough to make it rain.

"I wish I had fresh water," he announced to the empty air.  "Fresh water, or rum."

* * *

 A day later, James discovered that his plan hadn't been such a bad one after all.  He was impressed.

It was a ship, flying the flag of the East India Trading Company, that had picked him up.  A man with a craggy, cold face met him on deck.  James tried to explain things without outright stating that he'd just come off _The Black Pearl_ , but this man—Mercer was his name—was almost as good as Stella at hearing things left unsaid.  This Mercer knew that he was James Norrington and that he'd been most recently sailing with Jack Sparrow, and consequently his welcome on board involved a lot of muskets.

But, thankfully, once he produced the folio with the pardon, the bayonets were removed from his neck.  Admittedly, he was thrown in the brig shortly thereafter, but he had gleaned that they were on their way back to Port Royal, and that he'd have a chance to meet with Beckett after all.  And even though he was technically imprisoned, he was given food and water, and he wasn't sitting under the blazing hot sun.

 _Circumstances have improved.  Still weird, but better_ , he thought to himself as the heart went "thump-thump".  _At least these people didn't noticed that_.

James spent the next three days in the brig, propped up against the bulkhead, with nothing but his thoughts (many of which sounded a lot like Stella) and the Heart of Davy Jones for company.  It was entirely eerie and disturbing, and he was quite happy once they arrived back in Port Royal.

It wasn't the same as he remembered—it was busier, fuller... colder.  There was a sense of tension and nervousness, and considerably more soldiers than there had been previously; soldiers that were wearing the blue and gold of the East India Company.  There were new buildings and more ships, and all of them with the three-crossed company symbol.

He was led into the grandest of these new buildings—one with a proud clock-face on it—with Mercer and a couple of guards.  There were no shackles involved, so James assumed that he was being taken seriously as a  man with a pardon.

As he was brought through a doorway, he could hear Mercer's chill voice noting that, "...he had these."

Assuming that "these" were referring to the letters of marque and the pardon, James spoke up.  "I took the liberty of filling in my name," he supplied dryly.

Mercer moved aside, and James got his first look at the man who was pulling all the strings—a curiously apt metaphor, he thought, as the man beckoned him forward with a two-fingered tugging gesture.   Shaking off his "escort", whom he'd probably had under his command once upon a time, James did as commanded and came forward.

"If you intend to claim these," Lord Beckett said coolly, "you must have something to trade.  Do you have the compass?"

 _As if I could be bought for so low a price_ , James thought to himself, shaking his head.  "Better," he replied smugly.  _I can do better than William Turner, or even Elizabeth Swann—I can bring you more._

He smiled humourlessly as he dropped the leather bag that had been thumping against his chest for the past three days onto Beckett's desk, unconsciously mirroring one of Stella's favoured expressions when encountering with people she didn't like, but knew she had to deal with nonetheless.

"The Heart of Davy Jones," James announced—somewhat superfluously, inasmuch as the bag was pulsing faintly on its own.  Judging by the surprised (nay, gobsmacked), pleased expression on Beckett's pale face, he knew exactly what it was, what it would do for him, how much it was consequently worth, and (James hoped) how much bargaining power the man who brought it to him possessed.

Beckett turned cold blue eyes onto him, and James was suddenly reminded of Stella.  She was dark where he was fair and far lovelier, of course, but they had the same disconcerting way of looking at a person: even, measured, and unblinking.  James imagined that he would've been much more intimidated by Beckett's stare if he hadn't spent the last six months with Stella; when she looked at a person like that, she was actually looking at one's soul, and it never ceased to make his skin prickle.  His friend could teach this Lord a thing or two about intimidation.

_That's it._

Epiphany hit with the speed of a falling mast, but James was forced to shove it to the back of his mind as Beckett spoke.

"That is better," the Lord agreed, in measured, cool tones.  "In that case, the pardon is yours."

"Lovely," James drawled.  "But surely the object which will give you complete control over the seas is worth more than a mere pardon."

"Name your price," was the swift reply.

 _He won't give it straight off_ , a voice that sounded both like Stella and Sparrow (which was a disconcerting prospect) whispered. _Don't start with specifics... give him something he cannot truly fulfil, and thus cannot refuse._

"I want my life back," he said firmly.

"And what, pray tell, would that entail?" Lord Beckett inquired politely.

 _Dear God, the man doesn't sound half like Stella_ , James thought amusedly.  "A high-ranking naval position—if I cannot return to the post of Commodore, I wish to be a Captain again, at the very least.  I have need of a new habitation, since I imagine my home has been long sold.  I suppose I shall need new furnishings as well, and I definitely need new clothing."

"You ask much," Beckett noted dispassionately.

"And I bring much in return," James riposted confidently, refusing to relent.  "Lord Beckett, I have delivered to you nothing short of complete control of the sea.  Surely I deserve a reward of equal measure."

"Indeed."

 _I daresay I'd be much more intimidated if I'd never met Stella_ , he thought, holding Beckett's cold blue gaze.  _I shall have to buy her something very nice indeed, in thanks.  Jewels, perhaps... she'd look lovely with pearls and sapphires._

That Beckett would not deliver had never crossed his mind.  And when the Lord smiled faintly, James knew he'd won—for now, at least.  Whether or not he would remain triumphant was slightly more unsure, which necessitated Stella's presence at his side.

"A naval post, a new home, and all the fortune these things entail.  Anything else?" the executive of the East India Trading Company asked.

"I'll need passage to Tortuga and back," he added, thinking about the sugar-spun fantasy in his mind.  "There's a promise I need to keep."

His pleasant thoughts were rudely intruded upon when Beckett raised his brows and glanced to his left.  James wondered for a brief moment what he was looking at, but his curiosity was assuaged when Mercer's oily tones said, "Involving a Miss Stella Bell, perhaps?"

"Indeed," James echoed, plans forming rapidly in his brain.  The similarities between Stella and Beckett grew stronger with every passing moment—but with one crucial difference: Stella was on his side.  She'd help him, and he trusted her entirely.

And if Beckett had Mercer to dig out personal information about everyone around him, James felt it was only fair that he have Stella.

Besides, he had promised to return for her.

"Mmm... how very romantic," Beckett remarked, sounding as though he thought it was anything but (and it was for that reason James didn't bother to tell him that his relationship with Stella was the farthest thing from romantic in the entire world).  "Yes, do go and fetch your new beloved.  We will have organised the bargain by the time you will have returned."

Suddenly, the castle in his mind was no longer made of spun sugar.  It was made of something much more solid—like it could actually become real.  Though James had never considered it before (and would, in fact, deny for the rest of his life that Beckett had been the inspiration for the idea), it made a kind of sense.

While it was obvious that he needed to bring Stella to Port Royal (since she could probably intimidate Beckett into dying his own wig orange), James hadn't actually thought about how he'd explain Stella's presence in his life.  She wasn't his sister, wasn't his ward, and he didn't think Beckett would allow him to retrieve her if he thought for an instant that Stella would be working against him.  The rationale for her accompaniment was going to be one of those elements that would supply itself on the way—as would her living situation in Port Royal.  Oh, he'd once considered marrying her off to one of his subordinates (Groves was still single), but it would make everything so much more convenient if he just married her himself.

Marrying Stella would be a solution for... almost everything, actually.  It would provide an excuse for her presence (better than 'I want her here to protect me from the greedy E.I.T.Co. Lord'), it would enable him to take her off the island without raising any eyebrows, and it would also heal any wounds her reputation might have sustained due to him.  She would be with him to help manoeuvre the increasingly supernatural events in his life; he would take her off Tortuga and give her the status she'd lost upon the death of her father.  The two of them got on well, and had practised married life often enough during their time together on Tortuga... he and Stella could make a good marriage.  It wouldn't be based on love, as he'd hoped his marriage to Elizabeth would be... then again, that hadn't exactly gone over very well, had it?  He liked Stella, Stella liked him... there were often marriages based on much less, especially among those of their class.

"Of course, your Lordship," James agreed, snatching the bag with the heart off the desk.

"That stays here," Beckett immediately snapped.

James felt Mercer come closer behind him, and raised a brow sceptically.  "I don't believe that's how bargaining traditionally works," he pointed out mildly.

Blue met green, and the two men measured each other for a moment.  Then Beckett nodded.  "Very well.  To ensure your... safe return, Mr. Mercer will accompany you to Tortuga.  You will leave in three days."

"Thank you, Lord Beckett," James replied, feeling as though something had been won.  He bowed slightly, and left the room, the Heart tucked back into his coat.

* * *

 Three days later, the niggling unease was still there.  He wondered for a while if it was something magical to do with the Heart, before reminding himself wryly that the Heart didn't need magic to make him uncomfortable.  The mere knowledge that he had a severed heart in his pocket was eerie, but this was a heart that a very powerful man wanted very badly—several powerful men, actually.

The most pertinent one was, of course, the one closest.  James wasn't entirely sure what he thought about Lord Beckett.  The man was going to give him his life back, and he had shown signs that he was going to be honourable enough to do so properly.  But he was also ruthless and very cold—the fate of poor Governor Swann was testament to that.

James had been rather shocked to discover the fate that had befallen his once-prospective father-in-law when he'd gone to pay a call.  Swann was nothing more than a puppet now, dancing on Beckett's string in a sad effort to protect his daughter.  The governor-in-name had been pathetically grateful to hear that Elizabeth had been alive even a mere week ago, but James had been appalled at Beckett's (and Mercer's) behaviour.

Weatherby was just a pawn; was he going to go the same way?  Now that he was putting himself in Beckett's power, what guaranteed his autonomy?  He was hoping that it'd be Stella, but... was his chance for redemption just placing himself as a pawn on a chessboard?

The date of his departure for Tortuga couldn't come soon enough; James desperately needed to talk to Stella.

Of course, at the same time, he was a little nervous about the pending proposal.  The last one hadn't gone very well, and more elements than he cared to think about in his new life depended on Stella's acceptance.

His nervousness was compounded by his travelling companion.  Mercer was cold and watchful, utterly unscrupulous and totally devoted to Beckett.  If Beckett was the King on the chessboard he'd imagined, and Governor Swann was a pawn, then Mercer was the Queen.  He went everywhere and killed everyone.  (And in a morbidly curious sort of way, James wondered how he and Stella would get on.)

So as he and Mercer set off from Port Royal on an East India Company ship, James had never felt more uneasy.


	18. Stella Condicionis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a reunion and a proposal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got the title out of this chapter; I think it was one of the ideas from whence the whole story sprung. I'm rather fond of it, still, for that reason.

The broom fell over at the same time her clairvoyant proximity alert (such as it was) went off.  It shocked her so badly she dropped her teacup, spilling the contents all over her skirts.  Cursing softly, she stormed back into her bedroom, thinking to change her dress—it wouldn't do to meet her customers with tea on her gown.  That was hardly witchy and intimidating.

Of course, her gown became the very last thing on her mind as she heard the door open and a very familiar voice call, "Stella?"

She froze for a brief moment.  "James," she whispered.

Forgetting entirely to lace up her skirt, she threw aside her curtain and dashed out into the main room, hitching up the loose fabric in her hands.  And there he was.

He looked... better.  As a matter of fact, he looked better than she'd ever seen him.  His hair was clean and brushed neatly into a queue tied with a black ribbon.  The scruffy beard had finally been shaved—which, admittedly, left his handsome face with a strange sort of half-tan.  His clothing had improved: tan breeches, new boots, a very attractive sage-green coat and a brown waistcoat, all of which were clean.  And James was smiling in a way she'd never seen before—without the drunkenness, the angry bitterness, and with a kind of tired, wary contentment he'd never had on Tortuga—that creased his face and made his green eyes shine.

"James," she said again.  "You're all right!"

"I am," he agreed.  "And so are you."  He lifted her hand to his lips, but didn't release it after the perfunctory kiss.

She tried to ignore the way his actions made her heart pound, so loudly it seemed audible.

Then she realised that there was a thumping, and it wasn't her heart.

"James... there's a heartbeat..." she said slowly, her eyes inexorably drawn to a pocket of his coat.

Her friend winced slightly.  "Yes... that's actually one of the things I need to speak to you about."

"I'll make fresh tea," Stella offered.

"You may need something stronger," James said glumly.

Stella looked curiously at him, and noted that a great weight seemed to have descended onto his shoulders.  His brow was deeply furrowed, and he appeared to be very nervous.  The cheer she'd seen earlier had faded faster than the morning mists, and she suddenly felt troubled on his behalf.  "Is it that bad?"

"It's quite bad," he agreed.

Wincing herself, Stella went to the bookshelf and moved the heavy grimoire from its stand, reaching behind to fetch out the hidden bottle of whiskey she kept for moments when she needed it.

"So that's where you hid it," she heard James exclaim.

She laughed.  "It's hidden by more than conveniently placed books, James.  Even had you known where it was, you wouldn't have been able to find it."

"That's hardly sporting," he remarked petulantly as she turned to pour the alcohol into glasses.

She noted his eyes lingering on her hair, and realised he must be looking at the comb he'd given her.  It had graced her black locks every day since he left.

She smiled at him as she set the cups down on the table. "Perhaps you might begin by telling me why you have two heartbeats," Stella suggested.

"That would be because I have the Heart of Davy Jones in my pocket," he replied, sounding rather smug underneath the gloom.

It took a moment for that to register.  "I beg your pardon?"

"I have the Heart of Davy Jones in my pocket," James repeated, pulling a leather bag from his left pocket and tossing it on the table, where it pulsed in time with the thump-thump sounding in her ears.

Stella felt all the blood wash out of her face.  She stared incredulously at the bag—the Heart of Davy Jones was on her table.  The still-beating organ of the _de facto_ Ruler of the Sea—his  one weakness—was sitting, in a leather sack, in her kitchen.

"Stella?"

"I think I need to sit down," she said faintly.

She became distantly aware of his hands on her shoulders, and wondered idly when he had moved.  "You are sitting down.  Breathe, Starling."

She did, and, after a few more breaths, found that the strange fuzziness that had begun to overtake her vision was receding.  A cup was placed to her lips, and she automatically drank... and promptly started coughing as the burn of whiskey flooded her mouth.  Her eyes fell away from the beating sack on her table as she shuddered and wiped her lips.

"Better?" she heard James ask.  His hands were still on her shoulders, and she discovered that she liked the feeling.

"Yes.  James... that's the Heart of Davy Jones."

"It is."

"The Heart of Davy Jones!"

"Starling, you can keep saying it, with a variety of differing inflections, but it won't change the fact that there is a still-beating heart not attached to a living person resting on your table."

There was that dry wit she so adored.   Of course, that didn't stop her from giving him a scathing glare from over her shoulder.  Then she turned her eyes back to the bag.  "God in Heaven, James!  How did you get that?"

"I'll give you three guesses, and the first two don't count."

"Sparrow?"

"Brava."

"But how?"

"Well, when we left Tortuga a fortnight ago... dear God, has it only been a fortnight?"

"Yes.  Shocking, isn't it?"

"Entirely.  Well," James began, sitting back down, "when we left, our heading was determined by Elizabeth by means of Jack's compass and motivated by the thought that locating the Chest of Davy Jones would be the way to save her fiancée.  We did, eventually, discover the Chest, and Mr. Turner was kind enough to provide the key.  After some... negotiations," he said vaguely, "the Chest was opened, and during a battle with the Dutchman's crew, I took the opportunity to purloin both the Heart and the pardons, which I then presented to Lord Beckett in return for a yet-undisclosed naval position that will, hopefully, return my former life to me."

Stella knew he was leaving something out—he was leaving several things out, but he was flushing pink and apparently rather embarrassed about his descent into piracy, so she simply nodded and let him demur.  "How utterly... strange."

"So even you find it strange?" He sounded relived.  "That's comforting... I haven't been at ease in days."

"Were you expecting to be?" she inquired, arching a brow.

"I wasn't expecting to be this uneasy," he admitted, resting his elbow on his knee and placing his chin in his palm.

Both of them were avoiding any physical contact with the table upon which the Heart rested; Stella figured she was going to have to do some heavy scrubbing before she even thought about eating off it again.

Of course, James' next announcement knocked the table right out of her brain.  "I've met Lord Beckett."

She drew in a small breath.  "Have you, now," she murmured, lips curling slowly upwards.  "My goodness, you have been rubbing elbows with some very Important people."

"I could've done without it," he sighed.  "Stella, Beckett is..."

"Evil?" she supplied brightly.  She couldn't resist.

"No!" James protested automatically.  "No, he's not evil.  I think.  Perhaps."

"Your confidence is inspiring."

"Well... it's just that he reminds me of you," James blurted.  Before Stella could think to be offended, the whole story came spilling out.  "I can't think what to make of him.  He's elegant and powerful and seems to be honourable, but he's manipulating poor Swann shamelessly and I think his secretary might actually be an assassin.  And I can't decide if I want to put myself fully into his power—not that I suppose I have much choice, at this point—but I don't know if the man deserves my complete loyalty.  Yes, I probably should have thought this through before I took the Heart, but I wanted my life back—I still do—and Beckett is the only way to get it.  I don't regret that, but... I don't want to be a pawn, either," he finished meekly.

Stella frowned.  "And this reminds you of me?  James, I think I'm insulted."

"Not like that," her friend protested, looking incredibly nervous for some unfathomable reason.  "You're both powerful and controlled and have ways of knowing things about people that people don't expect you to know.  You don't smile with your eyes and you enjoy making people do what you want.  But you're more beautiful than he is," James added, smiling weakly.

Not once in their entire acquaintance had he ever called her beautiful—had he ever really commented on her looks at all.  That indicated, clearer than a stated declaration, that he wanted something from her.  Stella had an idea of what that would be—what was he worried about?  Did he honestly think she'd refuse when he asked her to come with him?   "Thank you," she replied.

"You're welcome."  He smiled in a way that reminded her of a puppy—a nervous puppy.  It was a very unsuitable expression.

She sighed.  "Just ask, James."

His green eyes widened in surprise, but he opened his mouth and blurted: "Marry me."

Her jaw dropped.  That wasn't what she'd been expecting.

Eventually she managed to collect her scattered thoughts—inspired mostly by the fact that James had gone very pale and was fidgeting anxiously.  "What?" Stella squeaked, staring at him incredulously.

"Marry me," he repeated.  Another torrent of words spilled forth from his lips.  "It would solve everything, really.  I need you to help me with Beckett, and you need a home off Tortuga.  We can live... live... bitterly ever after, such as it is.  You can terrify the citizens on an island that's not so... muddy... and I can sail off and either kill or steal under the protection of the British Crown.  It makes sense," the words came faster and faster now, blurring into almost incomprehension; perhaps after searching assiduously for the right words last time, and presenting them carefully, and being rejected nonetheless, he had decided that this time he'd go for verbal diarrhoea and hope for the best.  "We get along quite well, and although we don't really love each other—that is to say, in the _eros_ type of love, since I'm sure we bear plenty of _philia_ for each other—there are worse reasons to marry and I can't really think of anything else to explain your presence in Port Royal, and I did promise to take you off Tortuga and this is the best way I could imagine.  So please, marry me."

Stella had the feeling he'd practised variations of this speech all the way from Port Royal, and she had to press her fingers to her lips to keep from laughing aloud (a reaction which might just cause James to faint, he was so high-strung at the moment).  When she'd suppressed her mirth enough that measured speech was possible again, she merely remarked, recalling the drunken narrative he'd told her about his proposal to Miss Swann, "You're not really very good at proposing, are you?"

Her would-be fiancé buried his brick-red face in his hands, and Stella felt highly amused and very guilty for being so at her friend's expense, when he was trying so hard to be earnest.  She was also quite sure her pale skin could match James' blush hue for hue at this point.

This wasn't her first marriage proposal—a lady who could control the wind was a very lucrative commodity for sailors everywhere, and she'd lost count of the number of captains (mostly pirates) who had proposed marriage to her over the years in an effort to get her on their ships.  (The late Captain Barbossa had, as a matter of fact, proposed marriage to both her mother and herself, to those ends.)  Stella had actually been tempted by some of them, but had ultimately clung to her goal of marrying a respectable man (i.e, no pirates) and elbowing out a place for herself, her talents, and her magical descendants in the rapidly rationalizing world.

This wasn't her first marriage proposal... but, God willing, it would be her last.  James was right.  Marrying him would get her everything she wanted: she'd be off Tortuga, she'd be as close to respectable as she was, in all likelihood, ever going to get, she'd be permanently attached to a man—a friend, no less—she knew she could tolerate and cohabitate with gracefully, and she'd even get to observe Beckett before all hell broke loose.

Stella had just made up her mind to accept (out loud, this time) when James looked up at her, with an expression that would have been much better suited to Jack Sparrow's face—a kind of deranged, hopeful desperation.  She figured that he figured that he'd figured out an offer she couldn't refuse, and waited patiently to hear it.

"I'll bring you whatever jewels I come across, and I'll never vomit on your shoes again," James announced firmly.

She clamped iron-bands around the hilarity that was swelling up in her chest, arranged her features into something resembling solemnity, and replied evenly, "All right, then."

Her friend (or rather, her fiancé, she supposed; how terribly strange was that?  Having the Heart of Davy Jones on her kitchen table was nothing compared to the fact that she was now engaged to her best friend) looked vaguely unsure, and Stella rolled her eyes and said frankly, "Yes, James."

The look of bald, glorious relief that spread over his features was the final straw.  Stella released her control and started laughing, throwing her head back and clutching at her stomach.  Eventually she heard James' lower, rougher chuckles joining her cackles, and that set her off into another round, which made him go off again... they spent the next five minutes just laughing.

"I don't think that's meant to be the traditional response to a proposal of marriage," James finally gasped, once the hilarity had worn off.

"For that matter, I don't think that was a traditional marriage proposal," Stella pointed out, still wheezing slightly.

"You're right, though—I'm terrible at proposing," he admitted, wiping the tears out of his green eyes.  "Elizabeth—"

"Fainted and fell right off the battlements, I know," Stella interrupted, rolling her eyes.  She'd have to wean him of the tendency to compare every woman alive with Elizabeth Swann, lest she be forced to commit a violence upon him, which would be a rather ominous beginning to their married life.  "I think I'll take the laughter.  Not only is it less potentially fatal... well, we sealed our friendship in a like manner, did we not?"

James smiled again—the warm, wonderful smile that took years off his face and made something go squishy in Stella's chest.  "So we did... an auspicious beginning, perhaps?  For better and worse, and all that?" he inquired, in that lilting tone he always adopted when he was asking her, subtly, about something magical.

Stella wrinkled her nose.  "Let's hope it's for better," she muttered, looking down as her cheeks flooded with colour for what seemed the umpteenth time this afternoon.  "Seeing as I just agreed to go head-to-head with an extremely powerful English noble in order to save you from a mess of your own making."

He took her hand and squeezed it gently.  "But I'm taking you off this miserable hell-hole and making you respectable," he returned, mock-sweetness dripping from his tones.  Then he grew serious.  "Will it work, do you think?"

There was fear in his voice—well-concealed, but there.  Stella wished she could give him an assurance, but she knew full well how very dangerous the whole thing had the potential to be.  So she just bared her teeth in a parody of a shark's smile and decided that, since brutal honesty was the trend of the afternoon, she might as well follow suit.  "I have no idea.  We're sailing back into the hurricane—right into the heart of it—and where it will lead us, even I cannot tell."

Given James' history and the organ still thump-thumping on her table, some would have thought those were very tactless metaphors to use.   But Stella always chose her words carefully, and she wanted him to understand the measure of what he'd just gotten them into.  Previously, they'd been on the fringes of the spider's web, but now they were going to be plucking their way towards the centre and the spider itself—and worse, James wanted her to poke the damn thing with a stick.  Stella wanted him to know exactly how dangerous this was going to be.

Her point had been adequately received, James made a face and swallowed hard before replying thickly, "Well, I've got you at my side this time.  Though you can't control the hurricane, you can turn the winds."  His voice grew soft.  "I have faith that you'll carry us through to the other side."

His tender, trusting words made her want to melt—indeed, she had to actively fight off the tidal wave of warmth he'd had stirred up.  But now was no time for sentiment.  Right now, with the confrontation with Beckett in the very near future, they needed bitterness and ice.  She needed ice.  And what they needed most was a plan.

So she merely straightened her spine and started talking about arrangements.  And if her hand inexplicably found its way into James'... well, she hated having chilly hands.  The ice could stay in her heart, and her hands could bask the warmth her friend gave her.


	19. Stella Contentionis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which impressions are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From... I think this is 2008, now?
> 
> _Good clean fun, in this here chapter! (Although I did something that my narrative tutor was always telling me not to do; i.e, I changed viewpoints repeatedly. The character whose point of view is presented changes all over the place in this chapter. Which is bad. I'm bad. And this might be why I don't like this chapter as much as I like some of the others. Meh. Let me know if this is an experiment I can continue, or if I should stick to just having one character per chapter.) This one's another I greatly looked forward to writing. Basically, it's Stella Bell (soon to be Stella Norrington) v. Cutler Beckett, round 1._
> 
> _Fight!_

Beckett was sitting at his desk when Mercer discreetly entered the office from a side door.  "You made good time," he commented as his secretary approached him.

"The wind was incredibly favourable on the return journey.  We put into port last night," Mercer replied calmly, coming to a stop at the desk's edge.

"And our new acquisitions?"

"Mr. Norrington is at his new home.  The item in question is still on his person."

"And his fiancée?" the Lord asked, signing a document regarding port tariffs with a flourish.

"The rumours are true," was the simple reply.

Beckett drew in a quick breath before setting his quill down and turning his full attention onto Mercer.  "Indeed?" he inquired, feeling his stomach quiver in excitement.

"It was her power that brought us back so quickly," Mercer said.  "The wind filled our sails to bursting the entire way.  She sends her voice on the air—called me to her house more than a mile away."  And judging from the dark expression on Mr. Mercer's face, he hadn't much cared for that method of communication.

"How extraordinary," Beckett murmured, eyes shining.  "Mr. Norrington has a penchant for bringing me treasures... first control over the sea, and now over the sky. I shall have to reward him even more grandly than I had originally intended."

Mercer frowned suddenly.  "Mind her eyes, sir," he warned.  "She sees more than she ought."

Beckett raised his brows slightly.  "How much more?"

"Too much," said Mercer shortly.  "She'll wring your secrets out of you if you meet her eyes."

And of course Mercer had plenty of secrets.  Beckett wondered idly about which ones Miss Bell had plumbed from the depths of Mercer's mind, and (less idly) to what purpose she might put such information.  He then pondered what she might be able to see about himself.

A small furrow appeared under the widow's peak of Beckett's powdered wig.  "It seems our new treasure may have some unexpected drawbacks," he commented.

"That's the problem when treasures have minds of their own," Mercer agreed.

Beckett made a noncommittal sound in reply, and sat back in his chair for a moment, staring at the map on the far wall.  "Her value is nevertheless inestimable," he eventually concluded.  "I believe I will have to meet with her, and test the waters myself, so to speak.  Tonight, perhaps.  Where is the lady lodging?"

"She'll be staying with Governor Swann," Mercer replied promptly.  "For propriety's sake.  Though I should think she and Norrington will be aiming to get wed pretty quickly."  A slight curve at the corner of his mouth indicated what he thought about that.

"Don't be vulgar, Mercer," Beckett scolded lightly, though he filed the insinuation away with the rest of the information about the mysterious Miss Bell.  "Send a note to Swann informing him that I will be joining his party for supper tonight."

* * *

 "How charmingly arrogant," Stella remarked, once Governor Swann had relayed the contents of Beckett's missive.  She glanced sideways to where James sat beside her on the divan, noting his rather tense demeanour.  Patting his hand rather mockingly, she added, "Don't worry.  It simply seems that we'll settle everything rather sooner than anyone had anticipated."

"Joy," drawled her fiancé.

...No, that was still strange.

"Yes, and now I have to dig through my trunks to find something suitable to wear," Stella sighed.  She wanted to make a very particular type of impression on Lord Beckett, and she'd have to use every single tool available to make it.

"Elizabeth left behind all her dresses.  I'm sure she wouldn't mind if you borrowed something," Governor Swann offered, seating himself in a chair across from the loveseat.

Stella bit back her immediate retort that she was already taking enough of Elizabeth's leavings and she certainly didn't need to have any more, since it would hurt both James and her host, who had been nothing but kind to her thus far.  She merely replied mildly, "I thank you for the offer, but I believe your daughter is a bit taller than I.  I don't think there's enough time to have the hem taken up before dinner this evening.  No, I have gowns of my own."

"What is our plan of action, then?" James inquired softly, in case there were curious ears about.  Stella had performed a few benign tricks to discourage eavesdroppers, but a certain amount of caution never went astray.

"Plan of action?" she repeated innocently, turning big black eyes on him and batting her lashes sweetly.  The expression apparently looked as absurd as it felt, since James snorted with laughter.  She dropped the fluttering act and shrugged a shoulder dismissively.  "None.  Tonight is the first meeting, in which we feel each other out.  Further planning depends on what is discovered tonight—or not.  After all, we may not even need to plan.  Lord Beckett might be so impressed with all these unique things you've delivered to him that he'll make you an admiral without any negotiations at all."

"I hardly think you count as a 'unique thing'," James pointed out dryly.

That he actually believed it was testament to his goodness.  Stella ignored the warm glow that his words caused and simply returned mildly, "But Beckett and his pet assassin think otherwise."

"I knew that horrid man wasn't a secretary," muttered Swann.

"Oh, he's a secretary," Stella commented lightly.  "It's merely that he's other things as well."  And none of those things were pleasant.  Mercer was more twisted than a diseased vine, and after spending a few days on the same ship with him, Stella had wanted to scrub out her eyes.

Deciding then that the last thing she wanted to think about at the moment was Beckett's lapdog, Stella changed the subject.  "What colours will you be wearing tonight, James?"

He shrugged.  "I hadn't paid it much thought," he admitted.  "Have you a preference?"

"No blue," Stella said outright.  "Not that it isn't a lovely colour on you, but it is also the colour of the officer corps, and we don't want to dress you thusly until you have the undisputed right to be so.  No sense in Beckett thinking you're more eager than you are," she added, thinking aloud.  "Gold is out for that same reason.  Grey doesn't suit you, and we'll want a confident colour, anyway."  She paused once she realised that James was looking at her amusedly.  "What?"

"Perhaps you might find it easier to simply go to my house and choose my attire yourself," he said dryly.

Stella arched a brow.  "I want to make sure that every inch of our first impression on Lord Beckett is perfect," she insisted.  "I want to ensure that he knows we are a force to be reckoned with.  We are not supplicants.  We are equals making a deal, and we must carry that impression as well as we can, attire and all."  Her intended still looked sceptical, and she smiled lightly reminded him, "You did ask for it."

James just rolled his eyes skyward, before shaking his head and admitting, "I did.  Is pale blue acceptable?"

"How pale?"

Eventually they decided upon the colour of James' attire, under the benevolent but highly amused gaze of Governor Swann.  Stella was struck by how very cosy and domestic the scene was, but for two crucial elements.  For one, they were all very tense due to the upcoming dinner gathering; and secondly, Stella knew that both men were wishing she was someone else.

This was an element she hadn't truly anticipated.  Or rather, she'd thought on it, but decided that she could handle it in a foolish bout of optimism.  And she could handle it, of course... she just hadn't expected it to disconcert her the way it did.  It wasn't like Beckett and his schemes; those were handled with words and gestures and pointed looks (or so she hoped).  This was more insidious, and much harder to fight.

The problem was, everyone looked at her as Elizabeth Swann's replacement.

And as James adjourned back to his house to change, and the Governor stepped out to speak with the cook about the menu tonight, and Stella went upstairs to prepare herself for tonight, she decided that a short engagement would be best.  That way, she could enter into territory Elizabeth never explored, and leave the comparisons behind.

* * *

 His valet was no doubt reporting to Beckett.  As a matter of fact, James had a feeling that the entire staff of his new house were loyal to the Trading Company Lord.  It bothered him only slightly.  After all, the reality of the Heart and his deal with Beckett didn't seem so intimidating now that Stella was with him.  She had more experience with these sorts of things.

No, James decided, as he climbed out of the bath, if this Lord Beckett decided to honour his side of the bargain and return the rest of his life to him, he'd be content.

He was helped into the ensemble he and Stella had agreed upon—an emerald-green vest embroidered with paler green leaves shone under a black brocade coat dappled with simple wooden buttons, with a replacement white wig perched on his head.  A glance in the mirror as his valet tied his cravat showed a gentleman, clean-shaven and tidy.  There was no hint of the scruffy drunkard who had occupied the mirror for so long.  It was as if the last year had never happened.

Governor Swann's carriage was waiting outside, and James climbed inside.  As it rattled down the road, the feeling of unreality returned.  He could be driving up to the mansion to pay court to Miss Swann, instead of meeting with his fiancée and the man who held the reins of his unknown future.

Weatherby was in the drawing room when James arrived, and he joined the governor by the windows.  The older man spared him a tired smile.  "You look well, James."

"Thank you."

He wasn't sure what else to say.  James was well aware that Weatherby knew the source of his recent windfall (Beckett, that is—not the Heart), and James felt awkward about it for some reason.  He wasn't sure why; Weatherby had made a deal with Beckett, too.  Not that the older man had accused him of anything—indeed, James had been welcomed back with a warmth that made him feel deeply ashamed of himself.  He didn't think Weatherby would've been so welcoming if he knew everything James had gotten up to in the past year.

"It's strange, isn't it?" Weatherby said suddenly.  "All this..."

"Everything has changed, and nothing has," James finished, nodding.

The governor sighed.  "I hope your young lady knows what she's doing."

"I trust her," he replied quietly.

Lord Beckett arrived shortly thereafter, sweeping grandly into the mansion, garbed in rich red and bronze and carrying a silver-tipped walking stick.  "Governor Swann, Mr. Norrington.  Good evening."

"Lord Beckett," James replied, bowing.

"Welcome, Lord Beckett," Governor Swann said politely, but with little hint of any warmth.

Beckett left off any platitudes concerning gratitude for Swann's hospitality, since all present knew he'd invited himself and that Swann would rather play host to Jack Sparrow than Lord Beckett.  He simply nodded, before looking pointedly around the drawing room.

"Miss Bell will be joining us shortly," James supplied, as expected.

"How lovely.  I look forward to making her acquaintance.  Mr. Mercer spoke highly of her," Beckett said coolly.

That was a lie, as everyone knew.  Mercer hated Stella, and Stella didn't much care for Mercer either.  She had turned her sharp tongue onto him minutes after their first meeting; admittedly, Mercer had deserved it, but it hadn’t earned Stella any advocates, either.  It had been amusing to watch them snipe at each other for a few hours, but James had worried the entire voyage back from Tortuga that he'd wake one morning to discover that either there was a new eunuch on board, or that his fiancée had acquired a knife through her slight ribs.

James suddenly felt suffocated.  The room was stuffed full of polite lies and things left unsaid.  It had always been thusly, of course; no one spoke of things that Were Better Left Unsaid; no one mentioned that Swann was being manipulated, that James himself had been consorting with pirates, that he'd been jilted for a blacksmith by the governor's daughter.

It was even worse, now.  He knew Beckett had come to inspect his future wife, to see if her powers were everything that the rumours had portrayed.  Beckett knew that he carried around the severed heart of a mythical personage as a ticket to a better life.  They were neck-deep in magic and they both knew it, but it Wasn't To Be Spoken Of, not in Weatherby Swann's drawing room.  Though they could barter with the magic and its wielders in Beckett's office, when they entered into Polite Society, those elements of life were ignored and shuffled away and politely euphemised.  It was real, but it couldn't be accepted as such.

The whole situation was so hypocritical and false that, for a brief moment, James wanted to tear off his wig and scream at the top of his lungs, wanted to get a bottle of rum and fetch Stella and go sit on the roof to look at the stars like they did back on Tortuga, wanted to hurl himself full-tilt out the windows, breaking both the glass and the façade in a corona of shattered pieces.

But he'd spent a lifetime fighting off those urges, and so he suppressed this one with an ease borne of long practise, and steeled himself for an evening full of weighted words and unacknowledged realities.

He made polite small-talk with Beckett and Governor Swann about his voyage, about winds and currents and the pirate threats, until the faint chiming of familiar bells reached his ears.  Apparently Weatherby and Beckett heard it as well, since their heads turned to the door an instant before the footman outside pushed it open.

His jaw fell open.  In that instant, James took back every sarcastic thought he'd had this evening about Stella's nit-picky attention to detailing their first impression.  Every bit of it was worth it.

She swept into the room, head held high, black eyes hooded and mysterious with the empty little smile on her lips that James so disliked.  This evening, however, it suited her perfectly, and as she glided over to where the three men stood near the fireplace, James knew they would make an imposing pair.  His white wig was the perfect contrast to her black hair, swept up into an elegant twist with a single ringlet hanging down between her shoulder blades.  The star comb he'd given her shone in her gleaming hair, and pearl earrings he'd never seen before hung from her ears.

And her gown!  He'd never before seen her in anything but worn, faded, almost ragged dresses that showed the strain of Tortugan life.  But this... it was midnight blue and trimmed with silver stars, and in it Stella looked like a queen of the night.  She hadn't been made beautiful.  She was still small, and her features were still pointed and cold, her skin pallid and her sharp chin tilted with her particular brand of proud arrogance, but somehow, it didn't seem to matter when she came together as a whole.

Once she was within a few feet, Stella dropped into a curtsey, her dark blue skirts billowing around her.  "Governor Swann.  Lord Beckett.  Mr. Norrington," she greeted softly, every inch the proper young lady.

James noticed that, when Stella straightened, she was at a height to look Beckett in the eye without craning her neck, as she did with him.  And as their eyes met, he found himself watching avidly, searching for some sign of the impending clash.

Unfortunately, there was none.  Oh, perhaps they stared at each other for a moment too long, perhaps Beckett's polite smile grew a touch wider, perhaps Stella's pointed chin arched a bit higher, but there was nothing to indicate anything more than two curious people sizing each other up.

"You must be Miss Bell.  Charmed," Lord Beckett purred, taking the offered hand and placing a genteel kiss on the back.

"Of course," Stella replied mildly, taking back her hand and placing it in James'.  He placed a gentle kiss on her fingertips—he didn't want his lips touching the same area Beckett's had—before tucking her hand into the crook of his arm... which, coincidentally, was a prime position to display the sapphire engagement ring resting on her third finger.

Judging by the swift, amused glance Stella shot at him, she was not unaware of his manoeuvre.  James shrugged internally.  What could he say?  After loosing one fiancée, he didn't want to take any chances, and he didn't like the covetous way Beckett was eyeing his latest.

"You look lovely, my dear," Weatherby added pleasantly,

"Thank you, Governor," Stella replied sweetly, before gently pressuring James' arm and leading him over to the settee without making it look like she was leading him.  Once she had seated herself in a flurry of indigo silk, the men were free to do likewise, and James immediately claimed the seat at Stella's side.

"I trust your voyage was not too taxing?" Lord Beckett inquired politely, still watching Stella intently.

"Not at all," Stella replied, equally courteous.  "It was marvellous to see the last of that island," she added, with a delicate (and entirely false) shudder.

James had to stifle a smile.  Though the shudder was feigned, the sentiment behind it was not.  He remembered what she'd been like as they moved her things to the East India Company ship, practically quivering with energy as playful breezes whipped around them.  And though she'd been wearing a mask for Mercer the entire voyage, whenever he got her mostly alone (usually at the prow, or when they were on deck at night stargazing) she smiled and laughed with a freedom he'd never seen in her before, and declared vehemently that this was the happiest she'd been since her mother died.  It was the closest to jubilation he'd ever seen her; he had a feeling that, had Mercer been hundreds of miles away, she might've danced on the very air itself.

For a brief moment, James had the rising feeling of entrapment—but it wasn't on his behalf.  It was for Stella.  He wondered what it could've been like had he just brought her here, had there been no Beckett and he'd found a different way to regain his former life, had he just decided to honour his promise with no strings and take her off Tortuga.

But that was a candy-floss palace for another time.

James rejoined the conversation as Beckett made some comment about, "...Bell of Antigua."

He was sure he didn't imagine the miniscule amount of tension in Stella's body—then again, he knew what dangerous ground they were beginning to tread on.

"Only vaguely," Stella replied lightly.  "I'm afraid my family is much more interested in the female line, and its connections."  She smiled knowingly, even though only Beckett knew what she was knowing, and snapped open her sandalwood fan.  "Something I'm sure you're quite familiar with."

James guessed that Beckett was, indeed, quite familiar with whatever Stella was alluding to, since he smiled a smile as thin and colourless as a knife-blade.  "Of course," the Lord agreed evenly.  "And, after all, Bell is such a common surname."

Only the slight narrowing of Stella's black eyes indicated that Beckett's barb had hit home.  Her neck bent ever-so-slightly, acknowledging the point.  Beckett's head inclined in turn.  Two opponents, recognising each other as equals.

This could get messy.

_Cry havoc and loose the dogs of war_ , James thought, sharing a nervous look with the governor.  He only hoped they were all alive at the end of the night.

* * *

By the final course of dinner, Beckett had made up his mind.  James Norrington would be the admiral of his fleet...

If, of course, he could get a private moment with Miss Bell (with whom he'd been verbally fencing all evening) to lay some things plainly on the bargaining table.

Apparently Norrington had been a frequent visitor to the Governor's mansion in the days of yore, since the two men immediately retired to the chessboard once the table was cleared, with a familiarity that spoke of routine.  Miss Bell stood behind her fiancé with her thin hands on Norrington's chair, watching the game without a hint of expression on her face.

He really did need to speak with her—and speak frankly, without any of the insinuations and veiled meanings they'd been dancing with all evening.  While Bell and Norrington were a partnership, at the moment she was the stronger of the pair.  The soon-to-be-admiral wouldn't bend unless she told him to.  Beckett wanted her to tell him, but she wouldn't unless given a damn good reason.

So he focussed on a painting of a lovely young woman who bore enough similarities to Miss Elizabeth Swann to be her mother, and bent his thoughts toward Miss Bell.  He thought at her intently—though he didn't have any powers himself, Mrs. Livia Beckett had plenty, and she'd taught him this method of getting her attention when he needed to do so discreetly.

Apparently, this mental summoning worked just as well on Miss Bell as it had on his mother, since the sound of softly chiming bells and swishing cloth reached his ears as the lady approached.  "Do you know whose portrait this is?" he asked once he judged Miss Bell to be close enough.

"I believe it is Governor Swann's late wife," was the reply.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her step up beside him.  "One of the few paintings to survive the attack of _The Black Pearl_ , almost three years ago."

"I had heard of it."

"It was a terrible thing.  Apparently a cannon ball went straight through the house... I've yet to understand how that happened, seeing as the ship was down in the harbour at the time," Miss Bell added sardonically, "but it blew the front legs off the harpsichord."

Beckett just cocked his head to the side slightly.  Miss Bell smiled thinly, correctly interpreting his gesture, and suggested, "Perhaps you would care to see for yourself?  The repair work was quite good, but the damage is still slightly visible."

"I'd be delighted," Beckett replied pleasantly, offering his arm.  As she slid her hand into the crook of his elbow, he felt the usual shrinking-shiver sensation that happened whenever he got too close to someone with magic, wherein he wanted to crawl closer and slink away at the same time.  The old _wanting_ was as strong as ever—stronger, even, since it was now a striking young woman, instead of his mother.

Once Miss Bell had steered them into the music room and left the door open to satisfy propriety, she seated herself on the harpsichord bench and ran her spindly white fingers across the keys, playing an absent arabesque.

"Do you play?" Beckett inquired casually.

"Not in many years," Miss Bell replied, equally casual.  She didn't turn; Beckett took this to mean that he was going to have to begin the conversation.

"You're a very powerful woman," he remarked, coming to lean up against the harpsichord.

"And you are a very powerful man.  Though with a different sort of power," Miss Bell returned swiftly.  Then she added, "I wouldn't lean too heavily on this instrument.  The front legs are still unsteady."

Beckett immediately pushed himself off, and went to sit in one of the chairs by the wall.  "I wish to speak plainly, Miss Bell," he announced, as she turned to face him.  He kept his eyes on her forehead; Mr. Mercer's warning had been in his mind all evening, and he'd made a point of never meeting her eyes.  He'd made a thorough survey of her chin (sharp and proud), her nose (long and pointed), her lips (thin and supple)... any feature of her face that would make it seem as though he was making eye contact, without actually doing so.

"I agree that it would make things easier," she replied calmly.  "So I shall state plainly that I am a witch who can summon breezes at will and my intended has brought you the Heart of Davy Jones."

"And you are a pair?" Beckett inquired, crossing his legs and resting his hands on his knee.

"We are to be married soon, Lord Beckett," Miss Bell pointed out dryly.

"And if I were to give you a better offer?" he suggested, raising his eyebrows significantly.  He wanted her.  He was repulsed by her and hated what she was, but he wanted her power.  He wanted complete control over her and every aspect of her life.  He wanted to see the approval in his mother's eyes if he were to bring her a magical daughter-in-law.

"Such as yourself?"  Miss Bell looked like she was actually giving his offer some consideration, tapping her lips thoughtfully with her delicate fan.

"You would be a Lady, Miss Bell—a member of the English aristocracy.  If it's power you seek, you would be far more powerful as my wife than as Norrington's."

"But it isn't power that I'm seeking, Lord Beckett.  What I want is a measure of respectability, and security for my descendants," Miss Bell replied coolly.

"I can give you that."

"Can you?  Forgive me, Lord Beckett, but I believe that your previous... encounter... with Jack Sparrow has left you unable to have any descendants whatsoever."  Miss Bell's eyes flicked significantly downwards, before moving back up.

Beckett's fingers tightened unconsciously.  "How did you find out about that?" he demanded evenly.  "I have not met your eyes the entire evening."

"I do not need eye contact to read people.  Though I did find your efforts to avoid my gaze all evening to be rather diverting."

Now he felt a bit of a fool—worse, even.  He was now both foolish and exposed, and he'd been made thusly by the same woman.  Beckett felt the sudden urge to hurt her, to wrap his hands around her slender neck and squeeze until she was arching against him and struggling frantically and agreeing to surrender entirely... but stamped it out immediately.  Witches never took kindly to physical violence.  Besides, Miss Bell was incredibly useful, and affianced to another useful person whom he didn't want to alienate.  He'd just have to deal with her.

"It seems Mr. Mercer's information was incorrect," Lord Beckett remarked after he'd smoothed himself back into serenity.

Miss Bell made a scornful scoffing noise.  "Mr. Mercer has no imagination."

Beckett refrained from pointing out that it was one of the reasons he was such an efficient servant.

"However, I suspect that your imagination more than makes up for it," Miss Bell continued.  Now that Beckett felt freer to meet her eyes, he found her gaze to be very dark and very intense.  "Very few would believe in things like the Heart of Davy Jones, let alone have the spirit to pursue it, and certainly not the bravery to use it."

He wasn't sure if this was a compliment or a chastisement, and simply inclined his head in acknowledgement.

It turned out to be a compliment, since Miss Bell added, "I would consider marrying you simply for that reason alone.  You are quite the _rara avis_ , and I have the deepest respect for you.  However, I believe there are enough parallels being drawn between Elizabeth Swann and myself without the added condition of having jilted the same man.  I have no desire to induce further comparison twixt the lady and myself."

There was enough sneer added in her references to Miss Swann to surmise Miss Bell didn't think highly of her.  "Have you ever met Miss Swann?" he inquired idly.

"Not formally," Miss Bell replied derisively.  "Perhaps she becomes more likeable in close proximity."

"I shouldn't think it likely," Beckett muttered sourly, rubbing the underside of his jaw as he recalled the pressure of the gun Elizabeth Swann had pressed there.

Judging from Miss Bell's faint smirk, she knew what he was referring to.  _Mercer was right about one thing_ , Beckett thought irritably.  _She sees more than she ought_.

He was glad, suddenly, for the fact that Miss Bell had refused him, albeit delicately.  Living with a woman who was too useful to kill but could see into his thoughts would have been hellish.  And anyway, he would be able to wield plenty of power over her... if he could get power over Norrington.  If Norrington was admiral, that would suffice for leverage; Miss Bell was willing enough to tie her future to the man.

Yes... they were more useful together.  One could be used as leverage over the other.

"When are you planning your wedding?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Soon.  We have not yet chosen a date."

"Soon would be best," Beckett agreed.  "After all, I will need Admiral Norrington to take up his duties within a fortnight."

"Admiral?  You do honour your bargains, Lord Beckett," Miss Bell murmured, as the corners of her thin lips curled into a smile.  "Very well... I believe James and I might manage a wedding in a week or so.  I trust you will grace us with your presence?"

"Of course, Miss Bell," Beckett accepted.

"But I really must ask: as Admiral Norrington's wife, where shall I fit into your grandiose plans?" she queried.  At his amused look, she delicately shrugged one thin shoulder.  "Your plans must surely be thusly."

"You are quite perceptive," Beckett acknowledged, deciding that there was no harm in telling her some of his plans, since she'd undoubtedly dig into his brain to discover them if he didn't explain.  "I mean to eliminate piracy from the sea."

Miss Bell didn't react.  "That is an ambitious goal," she said, after a moment.  "I approve.  Heaven knows I have no love for pirates."

"Though you spent the last ten years on a pirate island?" he needled.

"That was not by choice," she replied coldly.

"Then I'm sure you'll have no objections to doing your part."

"And what, pray tell, is my part?"

"You claim to be able to summon wind at will.  That is what you will do: propel the sails of the ships sent to hunt," Beckett announced.

Miss Bell inclined her dark head.  "As you will, Lord Beckett," she murmured quietly.

_Yes, that is what I will_ , he thought hungrily.  _I will your submission to me, Miss Bell.  Yours, and all of your kind_.

That part of his plan, however, was best left unspoken and unknown, so Beckett tucked it safely away into the back of his mind.  And to test how submissive Miss Bell would consent to being... "Perhaps you might agree to being wed this Tuesday?" he inquired.

"Three days hence?  That is terribly soon, Lord Beckett."

"I can have Mr. Mercer assist in the planning, if you wish."

"I'd rather Mr. Mercer not be involved in any part of my wedding, your Lordship.  Friday is the very soonest things could be ready.  As is, I'm sure society will be in an absolute tizzy due to the rapidity of our ceremony," Miss Bell drawled, the proud tilt returning to her carriage.

_I will have to bend your neck, Bell_ , his mind whispered, supplying a variety of marvellous ways in which her slender limbs could be twisted and bent.  When Norrington was admiral, he'd be sent off for weeks on end; plenty of time to cow his wife.

Yes, it would be good to have James Norrington made admiral.

"Then I look forward to seeing you wed," he said finally.  "And I greatly anticipate the benefits of our partnership.  Shall we return to the drawing room?"

As Miss Bell placed her hand in his, Beckett couldn't help but apply a bit too much pressure onto her slim fingers, wanting to cause her a measure of discomfort.  However, the minute her bones began to grind together, she dug her fingernails into his hand, causing him to flinch as they nearly punctured the skin.  The tight hold on her hand was immediately released.

He looked over at her, seeing her black eyes regarding him warily.  "I believe we understand each other, Lord Beckett," she hissed.

* * *

Something tight inside his chest relaxed once Stella and Lord Beckett returned to the drawing room, both seemingly intact and with no blood or tears to be seen.  The relief grew even more profound when the two of them separated without any further ado and Stella returned to her place behind him, resting her hands on the back of his chair.

The chess game was proceeding well; he had almost manoeuvred Weatherby into check.  But as he moved his knight to take Swann's rook, Stella interrupted his concentration as she inquired, "James, what would you say to being wed on Friday?"

He nearly upset the chessboard.  "Friday?!  That's only six days away!" he protested, turning around to look up at her.

Stella shrugged.  "Lord Beckett feels that a short engagement would be best."  She flicked her eyes significantly over to the seated form of the white-wigged aristocrat.

James turned a jaundiced eye onto Beckett, who raised his brows slightly.  "Indeed.  I will need my new admiral prepared for duty no later than Monday next.  We will have business with a new ship of the fleet," he said casually, despite the fact that his words had made James' heart stop beating for a brief instant.

If he'd heard correctly, Beckett was making him an admiral.  An admiral!  He'd never... the best he'd hoped for, when he presented the heart, was to be reinstated as a captain—maybe commodore, once Stella joined the fray.  But an admiral!  He'd been young for a commodore, at 26 when he'd first received the promotion... he hadn't hoped for admiral until 40 at the very least.  Not even in his wildest dreams had James expected to be promoted to admiral at the age of 29, and after an extended period of disgrace, too!

Beckett was watching him closely for a reaction, and James straightened in his chair and nodded crisply, turning shining green eyes onto his benefactor.  "I will be prepared for duty whenever you deem it necessary, Lord Beckett," he said precisely.

The man looked smug.  Perhaps he had a right to be, although it irked him a little.  "Of course, Admiral.  I'm glad to hear your devotion to duty has not diminished," he replied.  His pale blue eyes cut to Stella, still standing stiffly behind him.  "I do hope your future wife shares your sentiments."

"His Lordship can count on me to support my husband in all things," came her coffee-like tones, coupled with a fragile hand on his shoulder.

"Then I look forward to attending your nuptials on Friday."

Beckett departed shortly thereafter, after sharing a long, challenging look with Stella.  James hardly noticed; as it was, he was still floating on a euphoric cloud.  Admiral!

He whirled towards Stella, scooping her into his arms and twirling her around.  Her bells exploded in a flurry of chimes as he set her suddenly down, crowing brilliantly, "I'm to be admiral!  Stella, what on earth did you say to him?"

Her pale face was arranged into an expression of polite amusement.  "We had a candid exchange, and Lord Beckett decided that the two of us together was worth an admiralty," she replied evenly, with the hated empty smile on her lips.

The obvious lack of true happiness put something of a damper on James' celebration, especially when he glanced over to Weatherby and saw the same weak joy on his own face.

Stella reached up and patted his cheek gently, turning his attention back to her.  Her faint smile hadn't quite reached her eyes yet, but it was trying.  But she caressed his face lightly with her thumb and said, "Congratulations, my dearest partner of greatness.  But now, gentlemen, I find myself rather tired.  I believe I will retire and commune with my namesake.  Good evening."

She curtsied swiftly and was gone in a flurry of stars and chiming bells before James could even think to waylay her.

"What on earth did Beckett say to her?" Weatherby wondered, once she was gone.

James wondered that himself.  He sighed; the teeth of his delight had been pulled, and now he was left with a sense of foreboding and the knowledge that something had hurt his friend.

She said she was going to commune with her namesake—that meant, he assumed, that she was going to sit on the roof and stare at the stars.  He'd wheedle a bottle of something alcoholic out of Weatherby and join her as soon as he could.


	20. Stella Tecti

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which James and Stella backslide into old habits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess this was 2007, then.
> 
> _A/N: Happy Birthday, Bitterly Ever After! One year ago today, I started posting this story. Wow. One whole year of updating—good show!_
> 
> _Anyway, in celebration of that monumental (sarcasm) event, I sat down and quickly pumped out this little chapter so I'd have something to post and for a while the "posted on" and "updated on" dates could be the same, because silly little things like that amuse me. Ha ha!_
> 
> _So yeah... nothing really important happens here. It's more of a reaction/filler chapter until the wedding in the one after this one. Whee!_
> 
> _Hmmm.... and I guess this means that Stella's birthday is August 9th. Well, happy birthday, Stella!_
> 
> _(And wanna know something really, really coincidental and funny? The bestowing of Stella's unintended birthday means that she's a Leo, and her celestial body is the Sun—a star. The website I checked this on also said that, "You may have a heavy ego, and you can be arrogant, vain, and extravagant. Your good qualities include: A strong vitality, honorable, creative, generous, dignified." That describes Stella pretty well, actually... and I did not plan that at all. Those funny little coincidences just kind of crop up in here sometimes. Like in the chapter with the stars, I didn't actually research the stars before I wrote. They just sort of popped in, and the meanings fit. Weird, huh?)_
> 
> I thought it was weird, anyway.

It had been easier to get onto roof of the Governor's house than it had ever been to scramble onto the roof of her own (not the least because she didn't need to worry that a misstep might cause a portion of the ceiling to fall through onto her bed).   And the view, given that the house was huge and they were on the top of a mountain, was spectacular.  She could see more stars now than she ever could back on Tortuga.  And she had to keep reminding herself of it, so she wouldn't get nostalgic.

How very ironic, that she should think longingly about a place she'd wanted nothing more than to escape.

The sound of the trapdoor opened, and she heard footsteps climbing the ladder from the attic.  She didn't need to turn to see who it was, and kept her eyes on the sky.

"The view here is better than the one from your house," James remarked, settling himself next to her.  Out of the corner of her eye, she noted that he still had his white wig on, but had removed everything but the loose linen shirt and his breeches.  It made him look less formal, but it was also a reminder that they were no longer on Tortuga, given how the pristine new wig reflected the pale light.

There was a hollow popping sound, and she turned her eyes to her fiancé, who had purloined a measure of brandy and was drinking directly from the bottle.

Some things didn't change.

The familiarity of the scene was comforting, and when James offered her the bottle she accepted, fortifying herself with a hearty swig.  "This is good," she remarked, taking another sip to savour.  "Pilfered from Governor Swann's stores, I assume?"

"I asked," James protested mildly.

"I don't think he was anticipating the consumption of the entire bottle," she smirked in return.

James just shrugged, and took the proffered jug.  "Do you miss it?" he asked her suddenly, after the brandy had changed hands once more.

She knew to what he referred: Tortuga.  "Oddly enough... yes," Stella admitted, ducking her head.

"Sometimes I miss it, too.  Things were simpler, there."  He laughed lightly.  "I'd been wishing that we could've been up here all evening, away from all the splendour.  You looked lovely, though," he was quick to add.

"I was your friend first, James.  Be honest," Stella said sharply.  She'd have to hurt him if he kept throwing insincere compliments around about her beauty and her charm, since they were both well aware that she didn't have either of these things.  "And I know I looked lovely.  There's a spell on that dress to make me look more impressive than I am."

That startled him slightly, though he grinned widely after the shock wore off.  "Very sneaky, Starling.  It worked quite well."

"I know.  I thought for a moment I'd have to retrieve your lower jaw from the floor," Stella teased.

James just rolled his eyes and poked her shoulder with his index finger.  "Whatever you did worked.  Admiral," her friend breathed.

That dampened her good mood.  Stella took the bottle from his unresisting hands and took a drink.  "Congratulations," she said quietly.  "You got what you wanted."

"You wanted it too, Stella," he pointed out.

"I know.  But that was before I learned what the price might be."

She drew her knees up towards her chest, as if to make herself a smaller target—not that such a move would ever help her.  She felt James' green eyes on her, weighing and measuring.  It wasn't exactly a feeling she cared for, but given the amount of those looks she'd turned on him during the course of their acquaintance, she couldn't really say anything without sounding hypocritical.

"What did Beckett say to you?" he eventually asked.

Here it was.  She knew it was coming, but she wasn't exactly looking forward to rehashing the entire evening, either.  Still, James deserved to know.

But first, more brandy.

"We spoke plainly," she replied, voice husky due to the burn of the liquor.  "Laid some things on the table.  He agreed to make you admiral—which I think he was going to do anyway—once he understood that we were a pair and would slide into his schemes where he saw fit."

"I don't think you're being entirely fair," James protested mildly.  "Lord Beckett seems to be an honourable man."

Stella just stared at him for a moment.  How could he say that?  Was he really that blind?  Had he been entirely oblivious to the danger contained in that short man, to the way Beckett watched her, and the veiled sarcasm of the entire night?  Would he really defend such a man?

It made her violently angry.  "Oh yes.  He's a very honourable man—honourable enough to propose marriage to an already-engaged woman," she sneered.

"What?!" James whipped around to look at her so quickly he might've done his neck an injury.

"Oh yes... Lord Beckett made me an offer," she replied casually, knowing that she was hitting him where it would truly hurt and not really caring.  "Pointed out the advantages of such a match—I could be Lady Stella. He wants me terribly, of course, and he's so very imaginative in regard to then more mysterious elements of life."

None of the statements she made were untrue.  Lord Beckett did want her and he was imaginative, but James was unaware that Beckett wanted to harm her just as terribly and that his imagination tended to run to the macabre and tyrannical.  And it was these omissions that caused the most pain, since she had phrased them in a way that emphasised his own weaknesses.

"But he is not 'an honourable man'," she continued, repeating James' phrase with poisonous mockery.  "At least when William Turner stole Miss Swann, he had the courtesy to do so to your face.   Your benefactor," another word loaded with venom, "would steal me behind closed doors, and still expect you to bow to him while I stood at his side."  She laughed, the facsimile laugh she used when she didn't really find anything funny but knew her false amusement would hurt whoever it was she was sniping at.  "And you call him honourable, hmm?  You really must define that for me one day, James.  I believe your definition might be different from that of the rest of the world."

James had gone very, very still, holding himself in the stiff, formal way that indicated he was hiding a good deal of turmoil beneath the surface.  His hands had clenched into fists so tight his knuckles had gone white. He turned slowly to meet her eyes, and said quietly, "You're so very cruel sometimes."

"And you're so very naïve," she retorted coldly.  "Any man who would sell a high-ranking naval position to anyone—never mind that it's what you wanted—cannot be entirely worthy.  For God's sake, James, the man has an assassin as his secretary.  And you call him honourable," she drawled scathingly.

He rolled his eyes, and her eyesight was good enough to see the tension in his jaw relax slightly.  "I take this to mean you did not accept his offer?"

Stella just stared at him for a moment.  After everything she'd just said to him, after once again using his deepest insecurities to hurt him and tearing the scales from his eyes in the most indelicate way possible, the first thing he wanted to ask her was whether or not they were still engaged?

James was a good man—too good for her.

"I did not," she replied, more gently.  "Even aside from the fact that I can't stand the man, I gave my word.  I said I would marry you, James, and so I will."

"You can't stand him?"

The hopefulness in his voice made Stella feel incredibly humble, and for the first time in her life she actually regretted using her powers to find things with which to hurt people—or rather, she regretted using it to hurt James.  "No.  He frightens me," she admitted quietly.

She didn't need to see her friend to know he was surprised.  "I didn't think anything ever frightened you," he commented.

"Some things do.  Not many, but some.  Unfortunately, Beckett seems to be one of them.  And I doubt I can conquer my fear of him the same way I did my uneasiness regarding drowning," she replied bitterly.

"What does he want, that he scares you so?" he queried gently, making a move as though to embrace her, but drawing back at the last moment.

"What do all men with power want?" Stella spat cynically.  "More power."

"So Beckett wants power?"

"Yes.  He says he's going to eliminate piracy from the seas—which is a worthy goal, I grant you," she added, before James could protest, "but he's doing it because he wants power.  He's not like you, James.  His motives are not nearly so altruistic.  He wants to serve his own goals."

"How does eliminating piracy serve his own goals?" he asked.

"He practically heads the East India Trading Company," Stella pointed out.  "If there are no pirates, then there is no one to steal his merchandise."

"But you can't just... eliminate piracy," James noted dryly.  "You can chase them away for a time, force them to move elsewhere, but destroying the practise altogether?  Piracy is a time-honoured practise that's been present on the seas since before the Roman Empire.  No matter how many ships you have, you can't just stamp it out." An ironic smile.  "Believe me, I tried."

"Point," Stella agreed, "but you're forgetting one thing."  At James' quizzical look, she tapped on her chest in a familiar thump-thump pattern.  "Beckett has Davy Jones.  Davy Jones has a Kraken.  Ergo, Beckett has a Kraken—or he will.  That's even beside the fact that _The Flying Dutchman_ terrifies the life out of most sailors.  No, if anyone will succeed in eliminating piracy... for a time, anyway... it will be Lord Beckett."  She swallowed.  "And then he will turn on my kind."

Understanding began to dawn in James' green eyes.  Stella went on, slowly explaining out the crux of the matter.  "He... I think his mother might have been like me.  And he wanted to be, but isn't... and thus he wants power over us, since he can't be one of us.  Sort of a, 'if you can't join them, subjugate and control them' thing."

"I believe the axiom is, 'if you can't beat them, join them," James pointed out wryly.

Stella snorted.  "That isn't how his mind works."  She shivered.  "It's just... disconcerting, the way he looks at me.  It's like he wants to either consume me or destroy me, but can't decide on which he'd prefer.  I've no doubt that he'll soon enough devise a manner in which he can do both, probably with the assistance of that revolting Mr. Mercer."  Laughing harshly, she added, "I've had people hate me before, but Beckett's the first that desires and despises at the same time."

"If he so much lays a hand on you—!" James snarled.

She interrupted coldly, "You'll have to keep silent and bear it.  We're in his power now, James—you cannot offend him, especially not now that you've got so very fall to far."

"But what about you?" he insisted.

"You needn't worry.  I'm too valuable to kill," she offered dully, smiling glumly up at her friend.

He looked terribly guilty, with his broad shoulders slumping.  "I shouldn't have brought you here," he muttered.

"Of course you should have!" Stella snapped.

"But I brought you into danger!" he protested.

"And what makes you think I wouldn't have stumbled across this particular problem on my own?  At least now I've met it on my own terms, looked it in the eye, and dug my nails into its hand," she finished with a particular sort of relish.  James still looked uncertain and unhappy, so she patted his arm gently and said, "Dear friend, I'd rather face Beckett with you at my back than confront him alone."

"I'd rather you didn't need to face him at all," he returned tartly.

She rolled her eyes.  "You brought him a woman who controls the wind.  Did you really expect him to leave me entirely alone?"

He shrugged, and ducked his head, rubbing awkwardly at his neck.  "I... er, I'd rather forgotten what a lucrative commodity you are," he muttered sheepishly.  "I was merely thinking that you could disconcert Lord Beckett enough to expedite the bargaining process."

"Oh James," Stella half-sighed, half-laughed.  "Well, at least something went right."

"Perhaps you should go," he suggested.  "Flee... try to escape before he can hurt you."  He swallowed heavily.  "I don't necessarily want you to go, but if you're in danger here..."

"It won't do any good."  She'd never admit that she'd considered such a plan of action earlier in the evening, with Beckett's intense, hungry gaze following every move she made.  "He knows me, now—knows what I am, what I look like, and what I can do.  If I ran, he'd chase me down.  And there would be nothing pleasant about what happened when I was caught."

"Is your eventual capture truly so inevitable?"

"Now that Tia's left Saint-Domingue?  Yes.  I could've perhaps hid with her, but she's gone voyaging... and that tells me, more than anything else, that something rather significant will be happening soon.  She never leaves that swamp," Stella murmured, mostly to herself.  It had surprised her to realise how much she did tend to depend on Tia as a safe haven in the event of disaster.  And now that haven had been removed; the day her voice had failed to find Tia in her swampy bower, Stella had known she was completely and utterly on her own.

"One day I really must meet this Tia," James remarked, breaking her out of her musing and clearly attempting to lighten the mood.

"I hope you will, one day.  But I don't think it's very likely," Stella commented, before smirking.  "Pity.  Tia would eat you with a spoon."

A roll of green eyes.  "Not a guest we'll want at the wedding, then."

"I don't think she'd come, even if she was invited.  She doesn't like land very much," she noted.  "And though she is, essentially, the last of those I'd claim as family, Tia is... not the sort of person to have at a society wedding," Stella added delicately.  "I doubt we're going to have much by way of guests anyway.  Governor Swann, of course. Beckett can hardly be excluded.  The rest of the guest list is up to you."

James shrugged.  "Then it's going to be a very small wedding," he said apologetically.  "I never did have many close friends."

"No family, either?"

"Only a few distant relatives, back in England.  You?"

"My grandmother had a younger brother... I've only ever heard of him, though.  I don't know where he is or how I'd go about finding him—or if he's even still alive," she added morbidly, snatching the brandy bottle and taking a hearty pull.

"Well then, here's to deceased family members. May they be at peace," James announced, whisking the bottle from her hands and lowering the volume of liquid a little more.

"And to absent friends," Stella declared, stealing the bottle back and lifting it skyward.  "May the stars watch o'er them, and the wind speed their path, and bring them safely home again."  She thought of Tia and knew, for some reason, that Tia would never again be a permanent residence of the house on the Pantano.

She had no time to mull on that, since James snatched back the brandy and made another toast.  "To our wedding!  May it proceed unhindered!"

He passed the bottle to her without complaint, and Stella made another toast of her own.  "To Davy Jones, without whose heart said wedding would have scarcely been possible!"

James snorted with laughter, and his next salute was rather silly as well.  "To Jack Sparrow and his insane quests, without which finding the Heart would have been impossible!"

Once the barrier was breached, the silliness of the toasts got progressively more extreme (though the steadily decreasing amount of brandy in the bottle might have been a factor as well).

"To the Black Pearl!"  This one was Stella's.

"To the British navy!" And this, obviously James'.

"To Governor Swann's fine wine cellar!" came from an increasingly tipsy Stella.

"To Caribbean rum!" was concurred by an equally drunk James.

Stella giggled.  "To Davy Jones!"

"We already toasted him," James pointed out.

"Did we?  My mistake," she burbled.  "In that case, a toast to white cake!  We'll have white cake on our wedding day, I think," she added.

"With candied fruit," James agreed, waggling his eyebrows slightly.  He very much enjoyed candied fruit, Stella knew.  She'd bought him—at great pains and rather impressive expense—some candied apricots for his birthday (he had turned 29 on the first of March, which had given her two weeks to overcome her annoyance at him for vomiting on her shoes), which hadn't lasted him three days, so rapidly (and enthusiastically) did he consume them.

"I'll make sure to have the baker add plenty of apricots," Stella promised.

"You're a peach, my dear," he beamed.

They shared a look, before grasping the brandy bottle and toasting, in unison, "To peaches!"


	21. Stella Nuptiarum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a marriage.

The day of the Norrington-Bell wedding dawned (or rather, pre-dawned, given the hour the bride awoke) rather grey and rainy, but the moment Stella awoke, she threw open the windows (much to the horror of her maid, Estrella) and made furious brushing motions with her hands.  The skies cleared less than an hour later (much to the horror of her maid, Estrella).

Apparently Estrella had previously served Miss Swann, which was a nearly-damning verdict in Stella's eyes.  She wouldn't have employed her save for the fact that she was one of the only available women on the island with any ability as a lady's maid.  The fact that their names were rather similar amused her, and she listened patiently as Estrella chattered on about the preparations for Elizabeth Swann's aborted wedding as she brushed out Stella's long black hair, still damp from her bath.

"...and it did just the opposite of today, Miss.  Dawned bright and sunny as anything, but it was pouring down rain by the time the ceremony was due to start."

"I hope this trend of opposites continues, then," Stella remarked as Estrella began to separate hanks of her hair and twist them up onto the top of her head.  "I have another for you: there are very, very few people at this wedding, and Lord Beckett is making his appearance at the beginning.  I can only hope that these contrary elements indicate a likewise contrary outcome, and that I will actually be married by the end of the day.  And to the opposite man in our study of contrasts, even!  Why, I daresay these are fortuitous portents indeed," she added wryly.

"And your gown's a different colour, too," Estrella added, sighing.  "A marvellous lovely gown it is, too—like a cloud."

"Thank you.  It was a... gift," Stella replied lightly, smirking faintly.  Actually, it had been payment; not all the pirates who came to her seeking wind paid in coin.  Captain Chevalle had traded her the wardrobe he'd stolen from an Italian countess in return for enough wind to propel an armada—the dark blue gown she'd worn for the first meeting with Beckett had also been part of that trousseau.

She'd chosen one of the richest gowns in which to be wed.  Though it was slightly out of fashion, the maids of the Swann household had been in a flurry of sewing and trimming to make it a little more current.  While Elizabeth's wedding gown had apparently been a striking confection of ivory silk, golden beads, and pearls, Stella's was a softer silken ensemble of soft blues and greys, trimmed with yards and yards of Valenciennes lace and subtle silver embroidery.

"Married in blue, you will always be true," Estrella commented as she finished the coiffure, with half Stella's hair pinned up, and half left to hang down her back in ringlets.

It was then that it finally dawned on her—really, truly dawned.  She was getting married.  She was off Tortuga, and she was getting married to a respectable man.  No more whispers, no more worries about reputation, no shadowy futures—she was to be wed in two short hours.  By the end of the day—by the end of the morning, no less!—she would no longer be Miss Stella Bell.  She'd be Mrs. James Norrington.

"Miss?"

Estrella's tentative voice broke into her increasingly panicked thoughts.  Stella shook her head slightly, feeling the hanging curls brush against her shoulders, and said, "Yes?"

"'Tis just... you've gone as pale as a sheet, Miss," the maid explained slowly.

Stella smiled grimly and shrugged slightly.  "The enormity of it has begun to dawn on me," she explained.

And it was enormous.  As Stella mechanically allowed herself to be laced into her wedding gown, she mulled over the cusp upon which she was poised.  Almost twenty-six, and almost married.  Strange, how things would change in an instant.  Twenty-six years of being Miss Stella Bell, and in the blink of an eye she'd be someone else.

Even more incredible, she'd be the first woman in more than four generations of her family to be married at all!  Her children would share their surname with both their parents; there would never be any whispers of bastardy surrounding them.  It had been her goal in life since the age of six (when she'd first had the epithet "bastard" hurled at her, and heard the label of "whore" attached to her sweet, beloved mother, and understood what both of these things meant) to marry a respectable man and bear his children.  And now, that goal was within hours of being achieved.

She gasped as the stays were tightened around her ribcage.  Yes, that was an apt metaphor for her nuptials... she was fond of James, of course, and didn't regret accepting him—indeed, she didn't suppose she'd want to marry anyone else alive—but the snare Lord Beckett had set for them was as tight and restricting as the laces around her waist.  Unfortunately, James and Beckett were a bit of a package at the moment.  Marrying one would necessarily put her in company with the other.  She'd just have to keep her head and her cool and avoid the frightening little man whenever possible—especially when James was out on the sea.

And... oh God... the wedding night!

She flushed, then turned pale again as she considered the one aspect of marriage she hadn't previously paid much mind to.  Stella wasn't a complete innocent, of course—after a decade on Tortuga, she was well aware of the mechanics of... er, consummation.  But she'd never... well, she'd never really thought she'd be in a position to practise them!  And with James, no less!

Although...

"I need to sit down," Stella announced suddenly, just as Estrella and the other maid—Hannah, was it?—finished fastening the dress.

A chair was quickly provided, and Stella sank down gratefully and buried her brick-red face in her hands.  It was all so overwhelming.  She was to be wed—married to her best friend under the eyes of a man who wanted nothing more than to break her into little pieces, and delivered into her husband's hands by the father of his former fiancée.

"Are you all right, Miss Stella?" she heard Estrella ask, as though from far away.

"I want my mother," Stella blurted unhappily.

She felt Estrella's gentle hands smooth her hair, and the maid crooned softly, "It's all right, Miss.  All girls want their mothers on their wedding day—'tis a shame yours can't be here.  But I'm sure she'd be proud of you."

Would she?  Nell would like as not chide her prosaic daughter for marrying a man she didn't, technically, love as a wife ought to love her husband.  But then she'd shake her head and support her child nonetheless.

Stella suddenly felt swamped by a great wave of longing for her family—any family.  She'd resigned herself to being alone years ago, and even the sting of her mother's absence was lessening... but this was her wedding day.  Was it so wrong to want her mother here to settle the veil on her head, to want her own father to give her away?  Mama would be teary-eyed and sighing, and would like as not burst into tears during the ceremony.  Papa would smile and joke, and offer to threaten James into treating her well, but his eyes would probably be damp as well, and he'd certainly have a handkerchief ready to offer Mama.

But Mama and Papa were dead.  Stella had known for years that she would never have her parents at her nuptials.  But being wed without any family at all—with no one there for her... hell, she'd settle for seeing the half-brother she hadn't seen since her exile from Antigua, or even the great-uncle whose existence she'd only ever heard about.  Someone... anyone!

There was something wet on her hands, and Stella was rather surprised to discover, when she lifted her hands, that the wetness was tears—she'd started crying.

"I am being quite foolish," she scolded herself harshly, wiping at her eyes savagely.  Estrella offered her a plain cotton handkerchief, which Stella accepted and used to dab at her face.  She realised, then, that they were alone in the room.

"I sent Hannah for some tea," Estrella said, as if anticipating the question.  Then, smiling, she added, "And you're not foolish, Miss Stella."

"Yes, I am," Stella sighed.  "I've had years to resign myself to the fact that I would be quite devoid of relations at my wedding.  I simply... didn't expect it to overwhelm me like this."

A tentative knock at the door drew both women's attention; it opened to reveal Governor Swann carrying a tea tray.  "I encountered the maid in the hall," he explained.  "If I might have a word, Miss Bell?"  Stella nodded; Estrella curtsied and departed, closing the door behind her.  Governor Swann set the tea tray awkwardly down on the dresser.  "Er... tea?" he offered, looking uncertainly at the porcelain tea service.

He looked so helpless that Stella had to smile.  "Allow me," she demurred.  It was a little bit strange, serving tea to the Governor in her dressing room a scant two hours before her wedding, but Stella felt that the surrealism of the entire situation went along with the general theme of her and James' nuptials.

"Are... are you quite all right, Miss Bell?" the Governor inquired, once they were both seated on mismatching chairs near the windows with cups of tea in their hands.

She assumed he was referring to the faint tear-tracks on her face.  "Yes, I'm quite all right," she replied calmly.

The Governor nodded, and opened his mouth to say something.  Then he seemed to change his mind, and took a sip of tea.  As Stella watched, he clearly stiffened his spine and gathered his courage.  "Miss Bell—Stella," he corrected himself, obviously uncomfortable but equally determined, "I am not reporting to that wretched little Lord—my loyalty is to my daughter.  I promise you, nothing that you say here will find its way to Beckett's ears through any means of mine." He took another sip of tea, and Stella waited patiently for him to marshal his words.  "I can see that you are troubled. Though I know you loathe the inevitable comparisons to Elizabeth, I assure you, I am not trying to replace her, or attempting to fit you into her place.  But I have been a father for many years, and when I see your distress I cannot but want to assist you in any way I can."

They'd had frank words on the subject a few days past, when Governor Swann had offered to give Stella away in lieu of her own deceased father.  Given that Lord Beckett was the only other option, Stella had accepted, but her reluctance was clear.  After some persuasion and an apology in advance for her words, she'd finally explained her position. Governor Swann had accepted her qualms, and promised that he'd try not to treat her too much like Elizabeth, though the expression in his eyes said eloquently that he didn't think her very like his daughter at all.  Stella had utilised her newfound resolve to bite her tongue and, in appreciation of his generosity, said nothing.

"I am not your father," Governor Swann continued, gentling his tone slightly.  "And you are not my daughter.  But neither of these people are here right now, and we are left with each other.  Perhaps we might... make do?"

Stella looked down at her tea for a moment, before reaching out to clasp Governor Swann's hand.  He set down his teacup and enfolded her hand in both of his, and she drew strength from his kindness.  "Thank you," she said quietly.

"What troubles you, my dear?" Swann asked softly.

"I'm afraid," she confessed.  "I'm afraid and lonely."

Governor Swann heaved a sigh.  "Lord Beckett has a penchant for ruining weddings," he commented sourly.

"He hasn't ruined mine—not yet, anyway," she added glumly.  "The day is young."

"Yes, he has," Swann contradicted gently.  "You've had to arrange things so rapidly that you're completely alone—the fact that people will talk for months notwithstanding."

Stella smiled weakly.  "Frankly, they'd talk anyway.  The once-disgraced James Norrington and his Tortugan bride?  And anyway, were I married in six months or six days, I still wouldn't have any family.  All Beckett took from me was the chance to resign myself to it."

"But had he given you more time, you could have perhaps formed some attachments—made friends?"

"Admittedly, yes," Stella sighed, acknowledging his point before straightening her shoulders.  "It would've helped, having friends here."

That she had only ever called about six people friend in her entire life (three of which were now dead, one of which was a voodoo witch, and the other she was preparing to marry) went unmentioned.

She finished drinking her tea, and straightened her shoulders.  It wasn't part of Stella's nature to dwell overlong on impossibilities—not the least because she was well aware that what most people thought was impossible was, in fact, not actually so, and that things that truly were impossible were thusly for a reason.  Her family wasn't here.  She had no friends but the one she was marrying.  Beckett was going to watch her like a cat watches a mouse.  But, she thought wryly, glancing down at her lovely gown, she would look pretty, at least.

"Will you help me with my veil?" she asked the Governor, setting the delicate china teacup back on the silver tray.

"Of course," he acquiesced, looking somewhat relieved.  Stella stifled a smile—no matter what, most men were terrified by emotional women.

First, though, she went to her jewel-box, and removed the baubles she'd be wearing.  The earrings with the tiny dangling emeralds, crafted of Spanish silver—they'd once belonged to great-grandmother Isabella.  Her sapphire engagement ring, of course—that had once belonged to her mother, and she'd worn it for the first time after James proposed, since he had no ring of his own to present.  The string of silver bells was ever-present around her neck (she wore them constantly, since they were a gift from her father for her thirteenth birthday—the last before his death), but they were joined by an ivory pendant, carved into a flower and hung on a blue ribbon, which had once belonged to her grandmother, Esmerelda.

No pearls, though—she would wear no pearls on her wedding day, and had insisted that no pearls be added to her gown, either.  After all, the saying went that for every pearl the bride wore, the groom would give her cause for weeping.  And, as Grandmama Esme always said, the men cause plenty of tears anyway.

And finally, the veil.  It was the oldest heirloom of all—a mantilla of black Spanish lace (probably stolen) that Mirela had carried with her to the Caribbean.  By now, the lace was tattered in bits and faded and aged to a dark brown, but it was still hers.  She would be the first since Mirela to wear it at a wedding.

With the Governor's help, she was able to fasten the lace veil into her hair, using the star comb James had given her, without upsetting the careful arrangement Estrella had worked so hard to achieve.  Then they stood, looking at their reflections in the mirror.

"You look beautiful," the Governor said tenderly, resting a hand on her shoulder.

"Thank you," Stella replied faintly.

Her skin was still the wan hue of milk—hardly the ideal of a blushing bride, and the Governor smiled compassionately at her reflection.  "Still afraid?" he surmised.

"Yes," she admitted, chewing absently on her lower lip in an attempt to bring some colour to her ashen face.   Then she met Governor Swann's gaze in the mirror's reflection.

He took one look at her wide, frantic eyes and said immediately, "I'll bring smelling salts." 

* * *

On the other side of Port Royal, in a pleasant townhouse not far from Fort Charles, James Norrington was settling the blue and gold brocaded coat of an admiral around his shoulders.  Like his intended bride, he was scrutinising his reflection in the mirror.  However, quite unlike Stella, James was feeling reasonably content and happy.  The pre-wedding jitters were mostly centred around Lord Beckett, and what he might do or inspire.

Stella knew his vulnerable points better than anyone alive, and her words on the Governor's rooftop six days earlier had flown straight into the most tender part of his heart where they still remained, causing him pain.  The fact was, James was not at all confident with women.  He never had been.  What courage he'd been able to muster up for Elizabeth had shortly thereafter been destroyed by her, and James was terrified that Stella was going to abandon him as well.   She'd assured him that she wouldn't, and he trusted her word, had seen the daggers in her black eyes whenever she looked at Beckett... but he'd also seen the greedy gleam in Beckett's eyes whenever he looked at Stella.  And the man was a Lord, after all.

But in less than an hour, these fears would be mostly for naught.  Oh, he'd still have to worry about whether or not Beckett and his wife (good God... Stella would be his wife) would tear each other to pieces, but in two hours, Stella would be his.  And he'd never have to worry about anyone stealing his woman ever again.

Then he amused himself with picturing Stella's reaction if she ever knew he'd referred to her thusly, even in the privacy of his own mind.

Attired properly, he descended to find Theodore Groves—now Captain of the _Endeavour_ , Beckett's new flagship—sitting in his parlour.  Groves (who had agreed to stand up with him, despite the extremely short notice) looked up on his arrival and grinned widely.  "You look well and handsome, Admiral," he complimented.  "I daresay you'll make your lady-love swoon before she even reaches the altar.  At least she's nowhere near the battlements."

James smiled wistfully, but stopped that train of thought immediately.  "Indeed.  But please, Theodore, don't mention Miss Swann," he warned.  "I'm trying not to think of her, and I'll take it as a kindness to my wife and I if you'll do the same.  Stella... does not think well of her," he said delicately.

This was a polite way to gloss over Stella's odd antipathy towards Elizabeth, which had only increased since their arrival in Port Royal.  In fact, Stella had told him flat-out that if he made a single comment regarding Elizabeth on their wedding day, and if she saw that he was thinking on her during the ceremony, she'd be forced to do him an injury, and wouldn't that be a terrible beginning to their marriage?

 _I am not Elizabeth_ , she'd said to him.  _I will never be Elizabeth.  And you, my friend, had best accept that, because I will sooner take up with Lord Beckett than spend my married life being regarded as the pale reflection of someone else._

He didn't take her threat very seriously, but James was trying heartily to purge any thoughts of Elizabeth from his mind.

It was difficult.

Groves nodded sagely.  "I can see how she might be unwilling to hear of her predecessor in your affections—especially on her wedding day."

James just shook his head.  Everyone thought that he and Stella were a love-match, that he'd met her sometime during his disgrace and fallen so much in love that he'd returned for her even after he was redeemed.  The two of them never said anything different, and no one else—not even Beckett—had any idea to the contrary.  Perhaps he would have liked to confide in Theodore—he'd been a good friend before... but now Groves was in Beckett's pocket, and James wasn't sure how far he could trust his subordinate.

It was sad, the way he almost instinctively distrusted everyone in Port Royal nowadays.  But even besides the fact that he wasn't sure who had sold out to Beckett (wholeheartedly sold out, that is; not the way he'd dealt with him), James knew that the majority of people wouldn't understand anyway.  How could he possibly explain the path that had led him and Stella to their current point?  How could he accurately portray all the things she'd shown him, the things that most people never saw?

Between witchery and drunkenness, pirates and Trading Company Lords, winds in strings and still-beating severed hearts... life had certainly taken a turn for the interesting since meeting Stella.  And now, in an hour (or less) he was going to permanently join his future to that interestingness.

Funny... he hadn't really considered what it would be like, married to a witch.  For such a long time, the fact that Stella was a witch had taken a lesser place in his mind behind the knowledge that Stella was... Stella, his sharp-tongued friend who'd seen him at the very lowest part of his life, and extended a hand to help him keep his head above the mire.  But the strange and supernatural was as much a part of her life as the navy was in his—more, even, since she'd been born to it.  And in marrying her, he'd be wedding those elements of life as well.  Not that he minded, of course—he found the subtle magic of the world to be as fascinating as it occasionally was frightening.

His life was going to be so much richer and stranger for Stella's presence in it.

He was jerked out of his thoughts when Theodore spoke again. "Well, I'll be glad to make Miss Bell's acquaintance—or rather, Mrs. Norrington's, since that's what she'll be by the time I formally meet her," he added jovially.  "She's been keeping mostly to herself."

"Not by choice.  She's been spinning like a cyclone, trying to get everything ready for the wedding.  Thank heavens Governor Swann offered to host the wedding breakfast, or I think poor Stella might have gone mad," James noted wryly.  "Lord Beckett was adamant that we be married before this Monday."

"Ah yes..."

The two men shared a look, both thinking about Beckett's plan to confront _The Dutchman_ , set three days hence.

"Will she mind, do you think?" Theodore asked.

James didn't need qualification.  "She'll do as she needs to, but she isn't wildly pleased, either."  He sighed slightly.  "This is not the wedding we wanted."

"At least it stopped raining," Groves pointed out hopefully.

They made inconsequential small-talk about the weather for a while, which amused James heartily inasmuch as he knew exactly what the weather was going to do at least two days in advance.  Eventually, he got too jittery to remain in the house any longer, and they called the carriage to head for the chapel.

 _When I next return_ , James thought, glancing back at his house before he stepped into the carriage, _I'll be a married man_. He smiled faintly, then turned to duck in the door. _Funny how everything can change in the blink of an eye_. 

* * *

James and Stella were to be married at the same chapel that Will and Elizabeth were meant to have been wed.  James knew Stella hadn't been happy with the repetition, but it was the only suitable location.  However, in deference to her sensibilities and her pointed dislike of Elizabeth Swann, they'd decided to hold the ceremony inside.

The chapel was still buzzing with activity when James and Theodore arrived.  There were servants bustling around with garlands of flowers to string around the pillars which arched into the promenade to the doorway, more people rushing around to dust the pews for the few guests that the Norrington-Bell wedding had, and the vicar was standing near the altar, already decked out in his simple black vestments.  The slender white tapers hadn't yet been lit, but the quartet of musicians were adjusting their music stands to the right of the altar.

"All this activity... you'd never think that there were only going to be about ten guests in total," Theodore remarked, after nearly being run over by a flustered maid with her arms full of flowers.

James made a noncommittal noise and tugged nervously at the cuffs of his jacket.  Everything was coming into place—the chapel was prepared, the Governor's staff would be preparing for the descent of guests following the ceremony, he and Governor Swann had signed the marriage contract yesterday (with Weatherby _in loco parentis_ for Stella, since Lord Beckett was her only other option and she would have sooner eaten live spiders before allowing him that kind of power), the guests were starting to arrive—there was Caroline d'Ascoyne, resplendent in coral-coloured silk and pearls, and behind her Mr. and Mrs. Robert Fitzherbert—and the weather was beautiful as a soft breeze chased the morning's clouds away to reveal clear blue skies.

Lord Beckett slid into the chapel like an eel five minutes later, and made a casual beeline for where James and Theodore and two other naval officers were clustered near the front of the chapel.  "Admiral, Captain, Lieutenants; good morning," he said calmly, nodding.  The officers bowed in return.  "Today is the big day, Admiral.  How are you feeling?"

From anyone else it would have been a polite inquiry.  From someone like Weatherby or Theodore, it would have been a serious inquiry regarding the state of his nerves (which were tense but otherwise all right).  But from Beckett, James knew it was a way of feeling out his weaknesses.  So he just nodded courteously and replied, "I'm quite well this morning, Lord Beckett?  And yourself?"

Beckett returned with a smile as thin as a knife blade.  "I'm overjoyed that the rain decided to depart," he said.

Only James knew that this was an oblique reference to the bride, and offered Beckett a thin smile of his own.

A quarter-hour after that, which James spent socialising uncomfortably with these people he had once known and been reasonably comfortable with but from which he now felt a distance, the Governor's carriage arrived.  He knew the moment Stella emerged—though he couldn't see her, he heard the chiming bells, and felt the soft breezes begin to swirl through the room, bringing a welcome coolness in their wake.

Not for the first time, he pondered the convenience of taking Stella as his wife.

The guests migrated to their seats, filling only two rows of pews.  James and Theodore stood to the right of the altar, the priest in the centre.  He could see Lord Beckett in the very front, on the bride's side.  _Won't Stella just love that_ , James thought cynically, feeling irrationally angry at the man for intruding here.  Yes, he was the reason and inspiration and provider for most of what had happened recently, and as patron to the groom he had a right to attend, but neither James nor Stella liked him.

He forcibly ejected Beckett from his mind when the music began—of all the things to consider on this most important day, James didn't consider Cutler Beckett of ultimate importance.  Unfortunately, the thoughts supplied in lieu of Beckett made his nervousness increase tenfold, and by the time Anne Witcher (one of the only woman in Port Royal Stella actually liked, and who had thus been asked to stand up with her), looking cool and serene in a gown of sea-foam green, walked gracefully down the aisle to take Theodore's arm, James was almost perspiring, despite the breeze Stella had directed to flow through the chapel.  Discreetly wiping his sweaty palms on his breeches, James took a deep breath, reaching for serenity.

Of course, it was all for naught, since his breath wooshed out of him in a swift rush once Stella stepped through the door.

It surprised him; he'd always heard about grooms being struck breathless upon beholding their brides, and certainly the-woman-he-must-not-think-upon had made his air intake erratic in the past... but this was Stella.  Tiny, skinny, birdlike Stella.

But today, she'd come as close to beautiful as she would ever get, and James was... impressed.  Her gown was all soft shades of blue and grey, like the sky earlier this morning, full of frothy bits of lace.  She looked like a cloud as she floated towards him, anchored only by Weatherby's arm.  The comb he'd given her gleamed in her black hair as it tumbled down her back and mingled with the lace veil on her head.

Almost unconsciously, his eyes darted to where Beckett sat.  The Lord's expression was carefully bland, his facial features arranged into an appreciative smile... but it was his eyes that gave him away.  James felt a cold spike of fear through his jitters, but it was soothed when Stella glided calmly past him without so much as glancing in Beckett's direction.

 _That's my girl_.

Though when he returned his gaze to Stella, James was surprised to notice that she was nearly as pale as the lace on her gown.  Her lips were quirked in that almost-smile that she wore in public, and her eyes were blank.  As she came to stand at his left, the breezes she wrapped around her tugged restlessly at his clothing as well.

 _She's afraid_ , his mind whispered.

But there was no time to ponder it, though, since the priest began to speak.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony; which is an honourable estate, instituted of God in the time of man's innocence, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and his Church; which holy estate Christ adorned and beautified with his presence, and first miracle that he wrought, in Cana of Galilee; and is commended of Saint Paul to be honourable among all men: and therefore is not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, to satisfy men's carnal lusts and appetites, like brute beasts that have no understanding; but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God; duly considering the causes for which Matrimony was ordained."

James let the words wash over him.  He spared one brief, half-formed wistful thought about how he'd wished to have Elizabeth in this same position once, but then tucked it deep, deep down into the depths of his heart where it wouldn't hurt Stella. He could feel Weatherby glancing at him—perhaps thinking along the same lines, judging from the tension in Stella's jaw, and the restless nature of the breezes that whirled around them.  He wanted to reach out and grasp Stella's hand, give her what reassurance he could that he didn't think less of her, that he was happy enough to be marrying her... but this was a solemn occasion, and he couldn't just take her hand when he wanted.

“First, it was ordained for the procreation of children, to be brought up in the fear and nurture of the Lord, and to the praise of his holy Name..."

Would they be gifted, like Stella?  Would there always be a part of their lives he couldn't touch?  Or was it just a peculiarity partial to the female line?  A swift, sweet daydream danced through his thoughts, of himself and a lanky young boy with Stella's keen gaze and imperious chin going down to look at the ships in the harbour as Stella and a pretty young girl with chestnut-coloured curls and bright green eyes bent over the battered old grimoire.

Perhaps having children with Stella would not be at all bad.

"Secondly, it was ordained for a remedy against sin, and to avoid fornication; that such persons as have not the gift of continency might marry, and keep themselves undefiled members of Christ's body..."

James wasn't sure what he felt as he pondered this adage—anticipation, dread, fear... dear God, he was going to take Stella—Black Stella Bell—to his bed.  She was cold as ice most of the time, and castrated people, and surely still virginal.  Would it be awkward and awful, and always be awkward and awful, or would she thaw as time went on?

He devoutly hoped for the latter.

"Thirdly, it was ordained for the mutual society, help, and comfort, that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity..."

Well, at least he was fully confident in this arena.  Stella was his best friend.  Even if they weren't going to be married, he'd have still wanted her near him.  He knew he could count on her for anything, anywhere, any time.  Drunk or sober, she had always helped him along.

He hoped he could one day repay the favour.

"Into which holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined. Therefore if any man can show any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace."

The fear returned, and James felt ever particle of his being quiver as the silence stretched.  Would Beckett say anything?  Would his patron stand and announce that he wanted the fey young woman beside him?  Would Stella agree, and vanish from his side like a wisp of cloud, only to bestow herself on another man?

For a moment that seemed like an eternity, the silence stretched, and it felt like his future hung in the balance.

But then, finally, the vicar turned to him. The moment was broken.  The wedding went forth.

"Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?" the parson asked.

"I will," James replied firmly.  And he would—he'd never approved of the casual disregard the marriage vows received from many upper class gentlemen.  He'd intended to be true to Elizabeth, when he'd asked for her hand, and his intentions had not changed with the bride.  Even besides the fact that Stella could curse him into an early grave, he had just given his word to be true to her.

Then it was Stella's turn.  "Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?"

Her "I will," was much softer, but the breeze no doubt carried her words to all the ears she felt needed to hear it.

"Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?" the vicar inquired.

"I do," Governor Swann replied tremulously, eyes faraway.

When Weatherby placed Stella's hand in his, James discovered it was cold and clammy, but since he now had a reason for having her hand in his, he pressed gently on her fingers and lightly moved his thumb across the back of her skin.  He was rewarded with a measure of warmth that sparked in her dark eyes as her expression became more of a real smile instead of a mask painted on for the witnesses.  It made it easier to say what he now needed to.

"I, James, take thee, Stella, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth," he intoned seriously, looking down into Stella's black eyes.

The faint smile on her face grew warmer, and her voice got louder and stronger as she spoke the vows in return.  "I, Stella, take thee, James, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey—" though he doubted that Stella would ever actually obey him (she was like a cat about it, really—she'd only obey him if it was something she had a mind to do anyway), "...till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth."

James released her fragile hand only for a moment, turning to take the slender silver band from Theodore.  He'd commissioned the ring from the silversmith almost immediately upon his return to Port Royal with Stella in tow, and the craftsman had finished it in time for the wedding.  He was glad of it—James wanted to make sure that the ring he gave her was his, since she'd provided her own engagement ring.

The band was simple, not set with anything, but was engraved in a simple pattern of swirling lines that had reminded James of the wind the moment he'd seen it.  And on the inside was etched a saying from Tertullianus which read: _Certus Est, Quia Impossibile_.  It meant "it is certain, because it is impossible"; it rather fittingly summarised the way Stella seemed to look at life.  Besides, the Latin language was something they both shared and enjoyed.

"With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, Amen," James announced.

The rest of the ceremony went by in a whirl, and soon enough the two of them were kneeling, side by side.  A fold of Stella's silken gown fell across his leg as she sank to her knees, and James had to stifle a smile as he recalled their disastrous first meeting, when her skirts had fallen on his hands as he'd laid prone on the floor of a tavern and she'd castrated a man to save his life.  They'd come quite a distance since then.

Finally, the parson finished his prayer, and announced, "Forasmuch as James and Stella have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth either to other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a ring, and by joining of hands; I pronounce that they be man and wife together, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

"Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder."

And as he helped Stella to her feet and turned to face the congregation (noting as he did that Stella's face had, thankfully, gained a bit of colour), James thought smugly, _I hope you heard that, Lord Beckett_.

* * *

Unknown to Admiral and Mrs. Norrington, they were thinking along very similar lines.  Before they departed down the aisle of the chapel, both husband and wife turned, nearly in unison, to meet the eyes of Lord Beckett.  While James merely met Beckett's blue eyes evenly as he tucked his wife's slender hand matter-of-factly into the crook of his arm, Stella arched her chin in the proud manner Beckett had already come to despise and smiled.

As the newlyweds passed him, Lord Beckett nodded in acknowledgement to the Admiral's claim, but the sharp smile on his lips and the slow, deliberate nature of his applause as his pale eyes lingered on the bride indicated to any who cared to look that Lord Beckett had designs of some sort on Stella Norrington.

Very few, however, cared to look.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N part deux: Aiya, hwai leh! They're married! YEEEEE!_
> 
>  
> 
> _This one was damn hard to write. I mean, it's a marriage, and I'm not exactly the most steadfast proponent of marriage my own self, after witnessing the violent dissolution of many connubial relationships over the course of my life. If the wedding seems ominous and less-than-joyous... well, that's why._
> 
>  
> 
> Also because I keep getting the wedding vows mixed up with Pippin's oath from the Return of the King. "I, James, take thee, Stella, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, until my Lord release me, or death take me."


	22. Stella Amplexi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a marriage is consummated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N: Well, from hereon out, this fic ceases to be the story of James Norrington and Stella Bell, this becomes a tale of James and Stella Norrington. Funky._
> 
>  
> 
> _This chapter, and the ones before it, have been the calm before the storm breaks. There is one more calm, domestic chapter before people start getting hanged._

It wasn't until after supper that the newly-married Norringtons had an occasion to relax.

"Thank goodness that's over with," James sighed, sinking into a chair in the sitting room and stretching his long legs out in front of him.

"I concur wholeheartedly," his new wife agreed, alighting gracefully onto the settee.

Stella had been particularly breezy today, James noted, watching the lace of her gown settle around her like morning mist—always rather distant and airy, flitting from place to place and speaking with everyone, harder to keep hold of than a fist full of cloud.  "Has it been very trying?" he inquired sympathetically.

She shrugged.  "A bit," she admitted wryly.  "But now it's over."

"It is.  And you've finally made your debut into Port Royal society—rather successfully, too," James noted.  "Everyone I spoke with found you entirely charming."  Indeed, the overwhelming admiration had confused him, and he'd had to stop himself from asking if it truly was Stella that was being spoken of.

"I was trying very hard to appear so," she replied, answering his unasked question.  "The majority of the town does not care much for Lord Beckett.  If I can get them to prefer myself—which, since I have Governor Swann on my side, is already nearly half-done—then I have something he does not."

He rolled his eyes.  "You are the most appallingly unromantic woman I have ever known," he informed her.  "You spent our wedding day plotting against Lord Beckett?  Couldn't you have called a truce?"

"He didn't," Stella pointed out.

James sighed again, and rubbed his face tiredly.  "You know, I didn't really expect you and he to start an outright war when I introduced you."

"Nor did I.  But he wants things from me that I cannot give, and if I don't resist him he'll take them by force.  I'm sorry if it distresses you," she added apologetically.

"Just... don't put me in the middle, please?" he requested tentatively.

"Don't worry, dear.  If Lord Beckett and I do decide to murder each other, we shall make a point of doing so in a location suitably removed so as not to be bothersome to you," she drawled sarcastically in return.

"Yes, I would be so very upset if you got blood all over these lovely new carpets," he quipped sardonically in return.

Stella laughed.  "That would never do!"

James just smiled.  He'd been gratified by Stella's subtle delight at her new home—their new home.  Since the reception had ended earlier in the afternoon, the Norringtons had adjourned to their new home, and Stella had spent the time acquainting herself with the household, the housekeeper, and the way everything was run.  She was constantly trailing her fingers over things and across the walls—a sign of acceptance, since James knew she tried not to touch anything in places she didn't care for.  He had every confidence that she'd keep everything organised, but was also greatly looking forward to seeing what kind of mark she'd leave on the house.

Her Tortugan residence had bottles and herbs and oils everywhere, along with charts and other paranormal paraphernalia on nearly every available surface.   And while he didn't expect she'd be so overt about her witchcraft now that she was a respectable married woman, he was curious about what little bits would overflow.  Would the spellbook take its place on the bookshelf?  Would her star-charts be kept in the drawing room?  Would the kitchen host the ingredients she needed for her spells?

At the very least, James expected that the house would always be cool and breezy.

Stella went on, after a moment.  "I believe we'll be having callers within a day or two," she noted.

"A guess, or a guess?" James inquired.

"The latter.  The broom fell over as I passed," she replied.  Then she smirked.  "Also, I invited several ladies to tea."

James just snorted.  "Of course."  Still, he couldn't but be glad that Stella seemed to like at least some of the inhabitants of Port Royal.  Having friends would be good for her, and it would give her something to do besides rattle around the house, do magic, and be at the centre of a new set of rumours.

"And you needn't worry," Stella said, watching him carefully.  "I can play the society lady when the time calls for it.  There will be no stains to your reputation."

Sensing that she was feeling defensive, James merely shrugged and replied mildly, "I wasn't worried.  I support you entirely—I think it will be pleasant to expand your circle of acquaintances.  The society on Tortuga was rather limited."

"It certainly was.  I think I will enjoy a wider variety of people, and few of the ladies are quite bearable."  She sounded surprised. "I enjoyed it.  The wedding breakfast today, I mean," Stella added.

"I enjoyed the cake," James agreed.

As discussed, the cake had been white with candied fruit (when the traditional fruitcake had been suggested, Stella had firmly declined, saying that she didn't care for it and wanted to enjoy at least one aspect of her own wedding).

He paused for a moment, then decided to soldier on.  "Did you enjoy the rest of it?  I noticed in the church that your hands were quite cold."

"Pre-wedding jitters," she said dismissively.

He rather doubted that was it, but knew her tone was meant to discourage further discussion on the subject.  Making a mental note to pursue the matter (or not, if appropriate) later, he nodded.  "You looked very lovely," he noted, feeling as though he ought to compliment his wife at least once.

"Thank you."  She stared off into the distance.  "And now we're married."

"Surreal, isn't it?"

"Entirely." 

* * *

 

Things got more surreal.  Since they'd been up early that morning, both James and Stella were tired, and retired early as well.  They did not look at each other on their way upstairs.  Both knew what was coming, but neither wanted to speak it aloud.

Stella sat in her dressing room, nervously playing with the tie of her robe.  Estrella had already left, after smiling at her mistress in a significant way, leaving Stella alone and in a state of both anticipation and dread.  Dread, because it would probably hurt quite a bit, and because it was James.  And anticipation... because it was James.

A glance in the mirror showed that her cheeks had flushed pink.  Since the night in the graveyard when she first recognised her physical attraction to her friend, Stella had carefully suppressed it, as she did with other sentiments and sensations she didn't want to feel.  Yet it was still there, lurking below the surface in a box she kept at the back of her mind.  And tonight, she could open the box and feel it—after all, she and James were newly married.  They were expected to share a bed (and if they didn't, she could bet that Lord Beckett would know about it soon enough, and use that knowledge for his own purposes).

_No_ , Stella told herself firmly.  _Lord Beckett won't be considered tonight.  You owe your husband that much._

The door between the rooms opened, and Stella pivoted in her chair to see James standing tentatively on the threshold.  His hair was loose and hanging around his face in gentle molasses-brown waves, and there was just a hint of stubble on his cheeks.  Gone was the blue-and-gold admiral's uniform, and in its place a simple green dressing gown and white linen nightshirt that made his eyes the deep green of the jungle at dawn.

He was terribly handsome.

The attraction made her stomach lurch with its rapidity and intensity, and instead of shoving it back into the box, Stella let it rush through her body.  She felt her cheeks flush pink, and then the blush spread down her neck and beyond, even as her hands began to shake slightly and fissions of fear ran up her spine.

James smiled tentatively.  "Good evening."

"Good evening," Stella breathed in return.

"You look... I've never seen you so informal," her husband stuttered slightly.

Stella raised a brow, and shoved the quaver in her voice away.  "Well, this is my bedroom," she pointed out.

Now James' cheeks were just as rosy as hers.  "I... yes.  I hope the decorations meet your preferences... if not, you may always redecorate... but I recalled how much you favoured green—"

It was true.  James had made sure that the furnishings of Stella's boudoir were all in soft shades of green and turquoises with faint hints of blues and yellows—it was entirely lovely, like a sunrise over the ocean. 

And interior decorating was the last thing she wanted to hear about at the moment.

"James," she interrupted, her lips curling in an indulgent smile.

James trailed off into silence, flushing a deeper red.  As she rose from her dressing table, he blurted suddenly, "May I touch your hair?"

Her eyes immediately darted to his face, before dropping to the floor.  "Of course," she replied.  She bit back the further reply that he was now her husband, and he could cut all her hair off if the mood so took him.   _James has certainly made me into a paragon of restraint_ , she thought wryly.

But once James was close to her, the majority of rational thought was drowned out by the frantic galloping of her heart.  And when his large, gentle hands reached up and started stroking her loose hair, she felt like her knees were about to give out.  She'd never stood so very close to someone who wasn't related before, let alone a man who made her stomach fill with snakes and was slowly running his fingers through her hair.

"I always admired your hair," James murmured.  "It was so sleek and dark.  I wondered what it would be like to touch it."

"I imagine you thought more of pulling it out at the beginning of our acquaintance," Stella said, nearly purring and swooning and shaking, all at the same time.

"I would sooner destroy a stained glass window," James protested, gathering her hair into a loose bun, before letting it tumble free again.  "But I did give consideration to chopping off your head entirely. Then I could've enjoyed your hair without the rest of you..."

Stella just chuckled, eyes still closed as she savoured the feeling of his hands in her hair.  "I would've just picked up my head and gone after you with knives."

A moment passed, before Stella's eyes opened and met James' bright green ones. Then both of them burst into laughter.

"You're absurd," James informed her, hands still buried in her hair.

"I'm absurd?" she said, mock-offended, but still smiling.  "You're the one who apparently wanted to cut off my head!  What a thing to say to one's wife," she scolded.  She felt glad for the laughter, though—it had dispelled most of her nervousness.  Despite everything else, James was still her strange, silly friend.

His hands stilled for a moment, and Stella could see he was gathering his courage for something.  When he did pluck up his gumption, it was to make a request in a low voice.  "Stella... may... may I kiss you?"

She felt her cheeks pale, then flush with a vengeance.  It occurred to her that, though they were married, James hadn't ever had an occasion to kiss her, yet.   Now was as good a time as any... and it might make everything that would follow tonight a little less intimidating if they started small and worked their way up.

So she lowered her lashes and simply murmured, "All right."

One of James' hands went to her chin, and tilted it upward.  Stella lifted her eyes to his, then dropped her gaze again, made nervous by the intensity in his looks.  Her stomach gave a great, huge lurch when his lips finally pressed against hers, and her hands unconsciously went to the lapels of his dressing gown.

Stella had only ever been kissed once before—by a pirate captain who thought to woo her.  She hadn't given him permission, and she hadn't liked him very much, and she'd hexed him terribly immediately afterwards.  It had been wet and too close and she'd never thought much of kissing since.

But this was different.

James wasn't rough—he held her like she was a bird, tenderly and carefully, as though she'd flee or shatter if he was too rough.  The pressure of his lips was not unpleasant, and the slide of his skin on hers made her insides shake.  He smelled of soap, and salt, and _James_ , and his lips were slightly chapped, and there was a hint of stubble on his face...

She leaned into her husband, and did something curious—for her.  She surrendered.

Surrender was not something usually found in Stella's proud nature, but she did know when she was outclassed, and she did know how to bend with grace.  Grace and style were far more important than even than her own pride.  She'd once told James that a person reached a point where if they surrendered one more thing, they would cease to be themselves.  The most important things about herself were her gifts, her pride, and her flair for elegance.  If she lost those things, she would loose Stella. Thus, she chose her moments of surrender with care, and this was one of the moments that wouldn't hurt her at all.

In fact, it might just make things a little more pleasant.

James seemed to sense the change in her posture, since the kiss suddenly became a little less... delicate.  Suddenly one of his hands was cradling her neck as he pressed his lips more firmly onto hers, and his other hand was at the small of her back, pulling her closer.  And then suddenly she was pressed against James from breasts to knees, her arms instinctively sliding from his lapels to twine around his neck as she rose on her toes to diminish the distance between their mouths.

Stella felt everything.  From the tickle of James' wavy hair on her hands and arms, to the drag of his chapped lips as they moved against hers, the warmth of the air from his nose against her cheek.  Their bare feet were touching, Stella's toes brushing against the toes of James on the left, and touching the arch of his foot on the right.  She could feel the folds of his garments and the faint heat of his body through her thin linen nightgown, and... and something else...

That "something else" was so very disconcerting to her that she, for a brief moment, lost her poise.  Her left ankle wobbled, and she nearly fell over.  Thankfully, her arms were still hooked around James' neck, so she didn't actually crumple to the floor, but she did have to break the kiss in order to steady herself.

James chuckled, hands sliding immediately to her waist to anchor her, and his voice was deep and perhaps a little rougher than usual.  Stella's cheeks flamed crimson, and she lowered her eyes to trace the pattern of her husband's dressing gown.

A soft "Stella," breathed almost like a prayer, drew her attention back to James, who rested his forehead against her once she turned her face towards his.  Their noses almost touched, and Stella peered up at him through her lashes, noting that his green eyes have darkened to the colour of the forest at dusk, when the very first stars were beginning to appear in the sky.

Her hands returned to resting on his chest; she felt his heart beating under the palm of her right hand.  His hands were placed on her shoulders, though they slid up and down her upper arms and glided through her hair every so often.

Stella wasn't entirely sure how long they stood there, holding each other and breathing in unison, but it was... not exactly peaceful, due to the fissions of _something_ leaping all over her body, but pleasant.  She felt content.  The terrible nervousness that had sat in her stomach since retiring had vanished, and she felt she could face the coming activities with something approaching equanimity.

"James," she murmured.

Her husband gave her a smile, then scooped her up into his arms and placed her on the bed.  Stella made a noise that she was hesitant to call a squeal (because that was so very undignified), but settled herself serenely on the bed once she was set down, arranging her nightgown and her hair.  Then she looked up at her husband, still hesitating at the side of the bed, looking down at her with an expression that made something in the vicinity of her chest go squishy and warm.

"James," she repeated, turning to rest on her side, and beckoning him with a languid gesture.

And without saying anything, James removed his dressing gown and joined her in the bed.

The rest of the night became a blur in Stella's memory, a melange of feelings and sensations that, though she tried, she could never quite force into lucidity.  There were several moments seared with painful clarity into her mind... the mortification she felt when she was disrobed, the awkwardness of finding the correct arrangement of James' lanky limbs above her more delicate body, the terror preceding entry, the stinging, pinching pain of penetration, wishing they could stop but knowing that it wouldn't make any difference while the wind rattled the shutters outside.

He'd apologised, of course, for causing her pain.  But it hadn't been so very bad, she supposed; the time she'd fallen off the roof had hurt worse. And though the discomfort itself had never really gone away, it had been joined by a rather pleasurable sensation and the enjoyment of watching James come quite undone.

From maiden to matron...

The transition hadn't taken very long, Stella mused, wincing slightly as she settled down to sleep.  Perhaps she would add mother to that list soon.

* * *

 

_James awoke to discover himself alone in the bed.  Frowning, he pushed himself up onto his elbows to look for Stella—she was meant to be here, wasn't she?_

_Ah, there she was.  His new wife was standing by the mirror, in her white nightgown, with her glorious black hair falling loose down her back.  She turned to look at him, revealing seven lit candles reflecting in the mirror._

_"James," she said to him, spinning around as her hair spread around her like a dark cloud.  She came towards him, and sat on the edge of the bed.  "_ _Caelum videre iussit, et erectos ad sidera tollere vultus," she said._

_Her black hair settled around her, revealing a child in her arms.  The baby had dark hair and a star on her brow—James knew the child was a girl.  He reached out, and Stella placed the child within the cradle of his arms.  And then he knew—knew like Stella always knew things—that this child was his daughter, his and Stella's daughter..._  

* * *

 

His eyes snapped open, and James, for a swift moment, was disappointed that it had been a dream.

Shaking the cobwebs from his head, he glanced around the room.  Judging from the extremely faint light peeking in through the curtains, it was very early in the morning.  He looked back down at the bed—Stella was still sleeping.

James smiled, and lay back down next to her, gazing at her face.  He'd never been in a position to see her asleep before, but Stella was almost pretty when she was unconscious.  Every waking mannerism that made her more unattractive fell away, and her face was in a state of complete relaxation.

She'd surprised him, last night.  He hadn't expected her to be so... responsive.  Indeed, James had fully expected Stella to be as cold in the bedroom as she tended to be elsewhere, and had expected the wedding night to be rather awkward and embarrassing.

...Which it had been, of course, but mostly due to the fact that he was deflowering his best friend.

She was so delicate, James had feared the entire night long that he'd crush her.  When he'd pulled up the hem of her nightgown, he'd discovered that her legs were as spindly as the rest of her, and that her pale skin was almost translucent along her inner arms and along her neck and right under her petite breasts; he could see the shadows of her veins in the muted candlelight.

"You need to eat more," he recalled blurting.

That led to the discovery that, when Stella blushed, she blushed practically everywhere.  Her glares, however, were much less fearsome when she was mostly naked and brick-red.  "I'll make a point of it," she'd drawled sarcastically, rolling her eyes at him even as the flush crept down her chest.

Positioning himself for entry was another awkward moment, due to the fact that he was so much taller than she was.  After a good deal of wiggling around and tangled bedclothes in which Stella had nearly been strangled by her own nightgown, they finally arrived in a position that was not terribly uncomfortable for either of them.

"Er... shall we take it slowly, or all at once?" James had asked her, as a blush of his own crept up his cheeks.

"'If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly,'" Stella had replied, quoting from Macbeth with a crooked, trembling sort of smile.  Her spidery hands were clenched around the tense muscles of his arms, and she nervously worried her lower lip with her teeth.

He'd felt free to find her attractive, then; to marvel at her ability to quote Shakespeare in bed and fully appreciate her more feminine attributes—she was his wife.  Stella had never been a beauty, and never would be, but she was alluring when she was sprawled beneath him, undressed, with her long black hair snaking around her and looking as apprehensive as he felt.

(After all, James had been with many women (most of which had been Tortugan whores), but he'd never deflowered a virgin before—let alone a virgin who could curse him if she felt so inclined.  Some apprehension, James felt, would not go awry.)

So, he'd rested his weight on his elbows, squirmed into position, and thrust home.

Stella swore violently, and dug her fingernails into his shoulders before raking her them down his arms.

"Stella!" James had gasped, nearly overwhelmed by the combination of pain, pleasure, and the scandalised realisation that his wife could, when so inspired, curse like a sailor.

"Sorry!" Stella had winced in return.

He'd taken it very slowly after that, barely moving for minutes at a time.  Stella's hands remained clenched around his arms, her jaw clenched tight and her expression otherwise neutral.  Eventually, she apparently got tired, or bored, and moved her hands from his arms to his hips.

"Just move," she'd muttered, digging her fingers into his behind and summarily dragging him forward.

His eyes had gone involuntarily cross-eyed at the sensations she caused, but not so much to miss her hiss of pain.  "I am sorry," he'd whispered against her neck, transferring his weight down onto his elbows to bring their faces closer together.

Her black eyes were luminous in the darkness, reflecting the candlelight as they looked into his.  "It needed to be done," she'd murmured in return.  A mysterious smile.  "And now I am a wife."

"My wife," he'd added possessively.

She rolled her eyes and snaked her thin arms around his neck, muttering, "So possessive," in his ear before pressing her lips to his chin, his cheek, and finally his lips.

In the dim morning light, James took stock of things.  While Stella had scored a series of welts down his arms and drawn a bit of blood from his shoulders, she hadn't blown the shutters off the house or hexed him.  Indeed, after the initial discomfort, she actually seemed to be enjoying herself a bit.  She'd been rather reactive and willing to follow his direction; she hadn't laid prone and still, like some high-society wives were supposedly wont to do.

All in all, it hadn't been a bad wedding night.  Not at all.  He was quite pleased that his martial duties would not be as onerous as previously thought.

James ran his hand through her dishevelled black hair, separating a single lock and winding it around his fingers.  Stella made a quiet noise and curled closer against him.

James had always been fascinated by women's long hair, ever since he was younger, and had looked forward to the day when he would marry and could touch his wife's loose hair to his heart's content.  Once, Elizabeth's golden-brown tresses had enthralled him, and he'd wanted nothing more than to have her in Stella's place as he followed the path of the sunstreaks in her hair.  He still preferred golden-brown hair on women, as a matter of fact... but the smooth darkness of his wife's hair was intriguing as well. There were no golden lights in Stella's hair, no languid curls or wild, frizzing locks—just a sheet of black hair, shot through with some deep, dark browns.

Stella made a lazy muttering sound, and he watched as her eyes slowly fluttered open.  Her dark irises were foggy with sleep, and she blinked at him a few time before apparently recalling where she was.  Then she gave him a small, answering smile.  "Good morning, Admiral Norrington," she said, voice husky.

"Good morning, Mrs. Norrington," James replied, feeling a bright prickle of pride and smugness that he not only had someone to address thusly, but that (despite Lord Beckett's inclinations) the title belonged to Stella.

Stella pushed herself up onto one elbow and jerked her chin sharply toward the window.  The curtains sprang apart, letting the watery dawn light filter into the room.  "Early morning," she noted, glancing back at him and blushing as she struggled into a sitting position on the bed, forcing him to release his hold on her hair.

That amused him, for some reason.  "It's a little late for modesty, Starling," he pointed out wryly.

The blush grew in intensity.  "One cannot shed a lifetime's modesty in the span of one night," she sniffed.

"I think one did rather well," he retorted cheerfully, waggling his eyebrows at her.  The corners of her lips curled upwards, and Stella placed her spindly hand on his chest.  "Your hands are cold," he noted.

"My hands are always chilly," she admitted, lightly trailing her fingers up and down his chest, raking her nails gently through the coarse hairs that sprung from his skin.

The temperature of her hands didn't much bother him, though, as Stella curiously ran her fingers across his torso and arms.  She looked younger, with an expression of unbridled interest on her face as she perused his body.

"How did you get this?" she inquired, touching a long scar that ran across his ribs.

"Cutlass," he replied, after a moment of thought.  "It was a pirate attack when I was a lieutenant."

"It looks deep."

"It was.  They didn't think I'd make it, for a while."

Her hand fluttered to his left arm, and the scar there.  "This one?"

"Pistol shot when I was captain of _The Interceptor_.  I barely noticed it until Gillette pointed out that I was bleeding."

The thin scars on his right leg, faintly ticklish as Stella traced the straight lines.  "Those," he said, without having to be asked, "were splinters from a cannon shot.  It hit the rail, which splintered.  I got hit with several large splinters."

"It's a dangerous life," Stella noted, running her fingers up and down his leg.

"Sometimes," James admitted.  "Often it's long stretches of sailing punctuated by mad rushes of battles and chases."

"You enjoy it," Stella accused him, smirking.

James just smiled.

She placed her hand above his heart, fingers splayed out like a starfish.  He placed his hand above hers, and they sat in quiet repose for a time.

"We should get up," Stella sighed, after a time.

James shrugged as best he could while lying prone and reached out to claim another lock of Stella's hair.  "There is no real need.  We have no obligations today—or tomorrow.  It's our honeymoon, however short it may be," he noted.  A shadow passed across her face, and James pounced on it before she could shove it away.  "What is it?"

"I have a very bad feeling," she confessed quietly.  "I had a dream last night, that we stood on a beach as a storm rolled in.  And just before it broke over our heads, you walked away into the Kraken's maw, and left me alone in the rain.  I am not at ease with the idea of you leaving me to face Davy Jones with only Beckett and Mercer with you."

"We'll have the flagship—"

"And what is that against a Kraken?" Stella interrupted, raising a brow.

"That's why we're meeting in the shallows on the other side of the island."

"I still worry," she said after a moment.  "I suppose, then, that now would be a good time to give you your wedding present."

"Later," James insisted, tugging gently on the lock of hair he'd wound around his fingers.  He didn't want her worries to overshadow the gift he had for her.

There was still a slight furrow between her brows, and James reached out to smooth it with his thumb, inadvertently tickling Stella's pointed nose with her own hair.  She wrinkled her nose at him, but the worry vanished from her eyes.

"I had a dream last night as well," James remarked, attempting to further distract his wife.

"Really?"  Stella flopped onto her stomach and rested her chin on her hands.  "Of what?"

"I dreamed you brought me a baby, wearing a star on her head," he replied simply.

Stella's reaction surprised him.  "Really?" she breathed, unbridled interest shining in her dark eyes.  She pushed herself up and leaned closer to him.  "What else?"

"Nothing... you just brought me a baby," James replied, confusedly.

"Wearing a star?"

"Yes."

"What room were we in?"

"This one."

"Day or night?"

"Night... there were candles."

"How many?"

"I don't remember!  Why the inquisition?" he demanded confusedly.  "It isn't as though I have significant dreams, like you."

"Nonsense," Stella dismissed breezily.  "Everyone can have significant dreams."

"But I'm not... er, gifted."

"Admittedly," she agreed.  "But... magic, mysticism, the spirit realm, whatever... these things aren't the sole territory of those of us who are.  It's everywhere.  Everyone could sense it at one point in their lives, but as children grow they learn to ignore it.  Although it can still be present in some people as a form of instinct."

"Is that how instinct works?" James said, understanding.  "The more intuitive can still... still tap into this magic, or whatever it is?"

"Exactly.  And since people are most open to the spirit realm when asleep, I wouldn't be so quite so quick to dismiss your dreams," Stella said pointedly.  She tapped him gently on the forehead—right where the baby's star had rested, he recalled—and told him sternly, "Trust your instincts."

"Yes, dear," he replied, rolling his eyes slightly.

Stella poked him again, before sitting back and demanding imperiously, "Tell me more about the dream."

James just shook his head.  "There wasn't much to it," he said simply.  "I woke up—in the dream—and saw you standing by the mirror.  There were candles on the table.  You turned to come to the bed, and when you sat down you said something to me in Latin, and handed me a baby with a star on her forehead."

"What did I say?"

James thought on this for a second.  Usually he didn't remember many of his dreams, but perhaps Stella was right and this was a more extraordinary one, since he soon recalled exactly what she said to him.  "A quote from Ovid.  'He bid them look at the sky and lift their faces to the stars.'"

Immediately once the recitation had finished, Stella was out of bed and tugging on his hand.  "Come, we must go look at the stars."

"But the sun is rising," James protested, even as he allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.

"That will simply make them easier to count," Stella said dismissively.

"I don't think that's what it meant," James remarked as he came to a stop by the window.  Still, he humoured his wife and counted the stars he could see from the window.  "Eight," he said.

Stella shook her head.  "Seven," she returned.  "One of them is Venus."

That number rang a bell in James' mind.  "I think there were seven candles in the dream," he announced.

"That fits," Stella agreed.  "Seven is a very significant number."  She returned to the bed after tugging the curtains closed and seated herself grandly on the messy bed.

James had to stifle a laugh—Stella's dramatic nature was such a part of her, it seemed, that she acted like a queen even when she was wearing her nightclothes and sitting on the sheets they had enthusiastically soiled the night before.  "So what does it mean?" he asked, sitting next to her.

"We're going to have a daughter," Stella replied casually.

He didn't miss the flash of disappointment that crossed her face when, instead of being surprised, he just nodded and replied mildly, "Yes, I gathered that.  But your family produces daughters anyway—there's no need for me to dream about it."

"But it's telling us how," Stella replied.

James burst into laughter.  "Stella, I thought you already knew how babies were made," he gasped, recalling one of her first quips at the beginning of their acquaintance.

Stella flushed and nudged him with her elbow.  "If we want a child—and James... I want a child—then we'll have to copulate seven more times," she informed him matter-of-factly.

His jaw dropped open.  Stella, surprisingly, didn't laugh, but just smirked at him and raised her eyebrows.

She was serious.

After a moment, he managed to gather his thoughts together.  "Er... are you entirely sure?"

"Yes.  You saw seven candles and we counted seven stars with our eyes," Stella replied firmly.  "Therefore, seven somethings must past before the child can be conceived.  Since we haven't got seven days before you depart and break the continuous chain, therefore we must copulate seven more times in order to ensure her conception."

James pondered this for a moment.  He remembered the dream-child.  He remembered how much he'd enjoyed copulating, to use Stella's more delicate term.  But then he remembered Beckett, and his duties.  He did want children—he'd always wanted children, and had always intended to have some, once he was established and married.  He was now established, he was now married, but... "Are you sure now is the right time?"

Stella looked down at her folded hands.  "It might be the only time.  Life is uncertain.  I do not know whether or not we will have another chance to create that little girl, so we had best make hay while the sun shines," she pointed out quietly.

She was worried again, and since she was making discreet mention of his own death, she was worrying him as well.  James supposed he'd have to distract her—fortunately, she'd handed him the method with which to do so.  "Well then," he sighed melodramatically, "I suppose I shall have to do my marital duty and make some hay.  And I notice that the sun is currently shining..."  Then he waggled his eyebrows at his wife, leaving no doubt as to his intentions.

Stella went brilliant red and started laughing, ducking her head in embarrassment.  But she didn't protest when James kissed her again, and pressed her back onto the bed as he drew the hem of her nightgown up her legs.  Indeed, she arched up against him and purred, "This will count as number one," in his ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N part deux: So, that's that. Subtle!sex. Really kind of weird trying to write that. Meh._
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> Especially because I turned out to be asexual, although I didn't know that was a thing at that point.
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> _No promises on when the next chapter will be up... I have lots of papers to write and stuff._
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>  
> 
> _And hey, does anyone know how long it takes to get from Hispaniola to Singapore? I'm trying to hash out an AWE timeline, but it's all weird 'cos Mercer shows up bloody everywhere. He's in Singapore—no wait, he's on The Endeavour! No wait, he's on the Dutchman! Can the man sodding teleport, or what? Blimey!_


	23. Stella Anxieti

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the newlyweds settle in.

It had gone too fast.

Their honeymoon—a grand title for a weekend off that the Norringtons had spent hidden in their home, scarcely ever leaving the bedroom—had ended with the sunrise on Monday morning, and now it was time for the Admiral to report for duty.  It didn't seem entirely fair that the newlyweds were going to be separated on what was only their third day of marriage, but both James and Stella were well acquainted with the intrinsic unfairness of life (and Lord Beckett).  Admittedly, James would only be gone for a day—perhaps two—but the seclusion was over, and they'd have to start entertaining upon his return.

James could tell that Stella was already fretting about him, and he hadn't even put on his hat.  Today was the day _The Endeavour_ , the flagship of the fleet, went to confront _The Flying Dutchman_ , Lord Beckett's newest acquisition, and Mrs. Norrington was clearly dubious about Beckett's ability to keep his men safe.  "If you keep frowning like that, your face will stick that way," he remarked.

Stella cocked her head quizzically.  "I beg your pardon?"

He shrugged.  "It's one of those time-honoured maternal axioms that mothers use when they want you to stop worrying."

"You're not my mother," Stella pointed out, quirking a brow at her husband.

"No, but I thought you might want some examples," James replied loftily.  "After all, you're going to be a mother in nine months yourself."

A swift, sweet smile flashed across Stella's face, and her hands unconsciously went to rest on her abdomen.  If his dream was correct—and Stella certainly seemed confident—then, even now, their child was growing in her womb.

But then the worry returned, sitting fixedly in the furrow between Stella's brows.  "Do try not to get yourself killed," she requested coolly.  "I'd rather prefer not to raise our child alone."

James rolled his eyes.  "Be calm, Starling.  Nothing is going to happen.  Lord Beckett has so much of an upper hand he may as well just hit Davy Jones on the head," he pointed out wryly.  "Besides, _The Endeavour_ is such a fine ship he'll risk no harm coming to it, and even more importantly, you've woven so many protective spells into my uniform that it will likely turn away bullets."

It was true.  For his wedding present, Stella had given him another uniform for his new admiral's position—something he was rather grateful for, since officer's clothes tended to be expensive.  And the first time he'd shrugged the coat onto his shoulders, he felt the hair-raising sensation of magic.  Upon closer inspection, he discovered a myriad of arcane symbols embroidered on the cloth in fine, subtle threads, nearly invisible to all but those who sought the embroidery out.  Stella told him she'd put all the protection into the outfit that she could.

James hadn't known she could embroider.

"It might," she agreed, smiling faintly.  "But I'd rather you not test that theory.  If anyone is going to shoot you, it'll be me."

"I'll be sure to inform the pirates of this development," he agreed solemnly.  It wasn't until the two of them were strolling towards the docks as the sun rose over the treetops that James remembered to ask his wife something that had been bothering him for a while.  "Starling, how in God's name did Davy Jones manage to cut out his own heart?"

Stella frowned slightly.  "I'm not entirely sure.  If I had to make a guess, I'd wager he had an enchanted knife.  The chest was probably enchanted too, to keep the heart alive and beating—or perhaps not, since it remained living even when removed from the chest. I honestly don't know anything beyond that... it was probably a ritual of some kind," she replied.  Tapping her index finger thoughtfully against her parasol, she added, "I'd also wager that _The Flying Dutchman_ is not a normal ship by any means... I think Davy Jones may have tied his life to it, in lieu of the heart.  Which means that the ship was out of the common way even before its Captain's impromptu surgery. How terribly curious..." There was a strange light in her black eyes, and a distant smile on her lips that worried him for some reason.

"No," James said immediately.

Startled out of her contemplation, Stella looked confusedly at him.  "I beg your pardon?"

"No," he repeated.  "Absolutely not.  You are not going anywhere near _The Flying Dutchman_.  I don't care how curious you find it, I don't want you anywhere near that ship."

She scowled at him.  "I don't want you near it, either."

"Yes, but the difference here is that going near the _Dutchman_ is my duty, instead of some half-baked curious impulse."

Her voice dropped several degrees.  "James dear, do keep in mind that I don't tell you how to command your fleet," she informed him coldly.

"Meaning what, Stella darling?" he inquired, equally chilly.

"Try not to dictate my relations with matters you can't understand."

James sighed shortly.  "Forgive me for being worried about my probably-pregnant wife."

Stella's brow arched eloquently.  "You've been telling me constantly not to worry for you these past few days.  Don't you think that's a little hypocritical?  After all, I'm not the one off to face the devil of the sea," she pointed out sweetly.

This was not an argument he was going to win.  "Why don't we just agree that you won't interfere in my naval business and I won't interfere in your supernatural business, but with the understanding that we are both free to express our concerns and have them discussed when an aspect of that business distresses us?" he suggested tiredly.

"Agreed," Stella replied, nodding regally.

The subject was dropped, though James noted that Stella was still looking very thoughtful.  They turned a corner, and the docks came into view—beyond them, he could see _The Endeavour_ , floating grandly out where once _The Dauntless_ had been moored.  "You're still thinking about it, aren't you?" he said, mind shying away from contemplating his lost flagship even as he echoed his own thoughts.

"Yes.  I wonder if Davy Jones was ever like me," she replied, angling her parasol to block out more of the sun.  "Paranormal, I mean.  There are other ways he might have used to bind himself to his ship and carve out his heart, but barring divine intervention a measure of supernatural talent makes more sense.  Ockham's razor, and all that."

"Do you want me to ask him about it when I meet him?" James inquired sarcastically.

"Oh, would you, darling?" Stella returned, equally sarcastic.

Their eyes met, and both Norringtons started laughing as they strolled down the dock towards the longboat that would ferry James out to _The Endeavour_.

"What are your plans in my absence?" he asked.

"I intend to go into town and purchase some new dresses.  This afternoon, I shall pay a call on Madame d'Ascoyne—she extended me an invitation in the receiving line, if you'll recall.  Tomorrow I have invited Miss Witcher and Mrs. Fitzherbert for tea, so I do hope you will return in time for that.  And I really must speak with you about hosting a dinner or a ball or something in the near future—it really would be the done thing."  She smiled.  "Everyday plans of the everyday wife."

"And the fact that all of these 'everyday plans' are endearing you to the town and entrenching your position is coincidental?"

"Of course, dear!" Stella gushed, batting her eyelashes outrageously at him.

James snorted, taking her hand and planting a courtly kiss on the back.  "Do try and stay out of trouble, Starling."

Stella smiled in return, not quite hiding the apprehension in her face.  "Do try and stay safe, my dearest partner of greatness.  And I will want a full accounting of _The Dutchman_ ," she added pointedly.

"Yes, dear." 

* * *

 

Stella was perusing Dante's _Inferno_ and preparing to retire when her husband returned home.  Hearing the clamour in the front hall, she marked her place in the book and placed it back on the shelf before quitting the library.  "That didn't take very long," she noted.

"We didn't go very far," James returned, removing the gold-trimmed tri-corn from his head and handing it to one of the servants.  "Just far enough along the coast to be off the beaten path, but shallow enough to avoid the Kraken.  Besides, Beckett had several of your strings, and the wind was with us all the way."

The grim notes in his voice were easily apparent, and Stella read tension in every line of his body.  And if she knew him—which she did—James would want the solace of a bottle; it seemed to be his way of dealing with the supernatural things in life he either didn't understand or couldn't control.  However, Stella was one of those things, and she had no intentions of being married to a drunkard.  So...

"You're hungry," she informed him, taking his arm and steering him towards the dining room.

"Actually, I'd rather just have a bit of port—" James demurred.

"You're hungry," Stella repeated, more forcefully, glaring up at her husband.  "I'll have the cook put together a cold supper, you'll eat something, and then you'll tell me all about it."

For a moment, he seemed as though he'd protest.  Then he just sighed a little and gave her a tired look.  "You know, I won't always let you run roughshod over me like this," James warned.

Stella smiled.  "Should you mind your health properly, I'll have no need to," she chided, and—on impulse—reached up to kiss him gently on the cheek.  James' sudden, surprised smile took some of the gravity from his shoulders—and most importantly, forestalled any objections he would have had to the implication of further interference, which had always been one of the things he hated most about her—and he allowed her to lead him into the dining room.

Soon enough, James had been plied with some cold chicken, a couple rolls, and some watered wine, which he was consuming with a gusto that belied his apparent lack of appetite.  "How was your day?" he inquired around mouthfuls of bread.

"Quite pleasant, actually," Stella replied lightly.  "I managed to place an order for several day-dresses, a visiting gown, and a travelling habit.  Tea with Madam d'Ascoyne was quite pleasant.  Beneath the gush and flutter, the lady is actually quite intelligent and has possession of an incredibly droll wit."  She raised a brow.  "And how, pray tell, was your day?"

James frowned slightly, and swallowed his mouthful.  He opened his mouth, then closed it, before taking a gulp of wine.  Setting the glass down firmly, he announced, "Davy Jones has a squid for a beard."

"I beg your pardon?" Stella said.

"He has a squid for a beard.  And a crab's claw on his left hand," James repeated, miming a series of writhing tentacles with his hands.  "His crew are slowly becoming strange, mutant sea-creatures, and his ship sails below the waters."  His green eyes were confused and muddled.  "I don't even know if they're still men underneath the detritus."

Stella's active imagination was unable to picture, with any justice, a captain with a tentacled beard ruling a ship that sailed under the ocean with a crew of creature-man hybrids.  Nor was the picture in James' mind anything more than vaguely threatening shapes and dark shadows.  "Fascinating," she murmured.  Oh, how she wished she could see it!

Her husband snorted.  "That's one word for it," he agreed sourly.  "Personally, I would favour 'terrifying' and 'distressing'.  I have no idea how Lord Beckett was able to face that monster without flinching."

"Beckett knows that he's stronger," Stella pointed out absently, still pondering what manner of enchantments must surely be necessary to permit a galleon to sail underwater.  Who had enchanted it?  Davy Jones himself?  To what purpose?  Before, or after he'd carved out his heart?  And his crew!  What magicks allowed them to breathe underwater?  What spells entwined their bodies with the creatures of the ocean?  Could she recreate those spells?  Oh, what she wouldn't give for an hour to pick the ship apart!  "It's very easy to face anything when you know you have power over it."

"I suppose," James muttered.  "And you're still not going anywhere near that ship."  At her mutinous look, he insisted, "It's not safe, Starling!  Jones submitted, it's true, but not gracefully.  I don't want to think about what he could do to you if you went out for a pleasure inspection.  It's very likely that he'd use you against us.  And I don't think he's a man like you've dealt with before.  I doubt threats of castration will have any effect on him at all, since he's already carved out his own heart to avoid entanglements with women," he said grimly.

"I wouldn't ask Beckett for it, anyway," Stella sniffed, concealing the sting of disappointment.  She knew that this was one thing James would not bend on.  Her ambitions to leave more in the grimoire than even Great-grandmother Isabella would have to remain unfulfilled for now.  So she changed the subject.  "But Jones submitted?"

"He's agreed to do Beckett's bidding," James nodded, adding forebodingly, "for now."

She arched an eyebrow in a wordless inquiry.  James took a deep breath and began to speak.

"We sailed east, out to an inlet west of Rocky Point, which we reached a little after midday.  Lord Beckett had the heart with him, and performed some ritual, once we were anchored, to call Jones to him.  There was a circle, some chalk and quartz, cloves, althea, and dandelion, and a large amount of symbols I didn't understand," he added, before even being asked.

"A standard calling," Stella replied, supplying the interpretation.  "But with althea to boost the heart's natural magic and actually call, since Beckett has no power of his own."

"Well, it was jolly alarming for the men," James grumbled.  "This _gentleman_ —not even an officer and ordering all of us around—suddenly takes out this pulsating bag, draws arcane symbols on the deck, begins chanting, and not five minutes later this nightmarish ship just... just explodes from the sea next to us, full to brimming with monsters!"

"I can see how that might be distressing to the crew," Stella agreed mildly.

James grew quiet.  "I would have given my left arm for the Dauntless and her crew," he confessed, looking down into his lap.  "Those men—what were left of them, anyway—faced the Isla de Muerta with me.  After those damned skeletons, Davy Jones and his crew wouldn't have affrighted them so badly."

His regret bled into the air, as acrid as vinegar to her mental senses and tempered only by the bittersweetness of his longing.  Stella reached out and covered his hand with hers, pressing gently in a wordless show of support.  "It was that bad?" she asked.

"Only about a third of them held position, and those who did were shaking so badly I could see the muskets moving," he replied glumly, twisting his hand up to clasp her fingers.

Stella smiled, and tickled the palm of his hand with her thumb.  "Not everyone is blessed with your fortitude, my dear," she pointed out dryly.  At James' snort, she insisted.  "Truly, James, you have a most remarkable courage in you—more than I have ever seen in any other man in all my life.  I remember being quite impressed during the early days of our acquaintance that I could not scare you into compliance."

"Yes, but there's a slightly difference between being menaced by a skinny girl who can theoretically curse you, and being menaced by a six-foot amalgamation of squid and man who is pointing cannons at you," James pointed out dryly.  Before she could protest the adjective (yes, she was slim, but it was hard to feed oneself when one lived alone and had to fight with pirates every time one needed bread, and there was no _theoretically_ about her powers), her husband continued on.  "Having scared the wits out of half _The Endeavor's_ crew, _The Dutchman_ seemed content to float beside us for a time.  Lord Beckett eventually opened the spyglass, and Jones... he..."  He shook his head.  "I have no idea what he did.  One minute he was on the Dutchman, and the next he was standing in front of me."

Stella's eyes went wide.  "That is a great feat!  I wonder at his skill to manage it," she exclaimed.

"No," James said.

"Must you keep repeating yourself?" she snapped irritably, her excitement doused before it even had a chance to flower.

"Your fascination with that ship makes me deeply uncomfortable, Stella.  I don't want you anywhere near it," he snapped back.  He withered slightly under her venomous glare, but rallied and added, "You told me to trust my instincts, and I have a very ill feeling about that ship.  And why are you so all-fired curious about it, anyway?"

"Because it's fascinating!  One of the most intricate magical workings in the world, if I'm any judge," she replied evasively.

"You've never cared about intricate magical workings before."

"I'd never had one so near to hand before."

"Stella."

Sighing shortly, Stella folded her hands in her lap.  "There is so little magic left in the world," she explained.  "This is the twilight of the supernatural, James.  Very soon it will have been pushed away into corners and niches with no place in the larger world.  This waning began many years ago—to the point where it's quite rare to encounter anything massively paranormal.  I have, at this point, experienced two very large magical presences in my life.  One was my mother.  The other is Tia.

"And now comes _The Flying Dutchman_ , this huge magical thing.  The ship saturated with magic so much that it can defy the laws of physics; its captain can perform magical feats that I couldn't even dream of.  I'm terribly curious about it, yes.  I want to study it.  I want to record it in the grimiore, and take up even more space in the book than my great-grandmother," she admitted.  "But it's more than that, even.  I don't know when I shall ever encounter anything like it again.  Our time—the time of the immaterial and supernatural—is fading, and I don't know if I shall ever have a chance to see it if I don't take the chance now.

"And now that I'm married into respectable society, I've removed myself even farther.  I don't regret it," she added quickly, "since my position will ensure the prosperity of my descendants, but it's very likely we will never be in the presence of so much magic ever again.  I just... I just want to see it before it fades away," she finished quietly.

"I suppose that is understandable," James said after a moment.  "I suppose choosing between the two parts of your life is difficult—the respectable and the magical."

"There was never any choice," Stella replied sourly.  "Mother chose the magical, and I suffered for it.  I swore my children would never suffer for what we are.  And if that means we must downplay our heritage... well, if we chose otherwise, we'd fade with the rest of our world.  I suppose my desire to see _The Dutchman_ is my way of saying farewell."

"I always thought you blended the two elements seamlessly," James remarked after a moment.  "I don't think you'll need to bid farewell—I fully expect to encounter the paranormal throughout our married life."

"Is that a subtle way of saying hell will freeze over before I set foot on that ship?"

"Yes."

"Why does it affright you so?  What happened?" she inquired.

James swallowed heavily.  "After Davy Jones arrived, he stormed right up to Lord Beckett and demanded the return of his heart.  Lord Beckett simply looked back and refused, saying that he was holding it as insurance for good behaviour—that Davy Jones could now consider himself, his crew, and his ship in the employ of the East India Trading Company."

"I imagine that went over quite well."

"Indeed," James agreed sarcastically.  "I believe Jones only just restrained himself from reaching out and snapping Lord Beckett's neck.  Only his ignorance of the location of his heart stopped him."

"Where was the heart, pray tell?" Stella queried.

"My pocket."  Stella's eyes went wide with horror as she realised the implications.  The grim lines on the handsome planes of James' face indicated that he was well aware of the implications as well.  "Beckett chided Jones for his impetuous temper, hinting that any misbehaviour would result in the destruction of the heart.  He then gestured to me, saying something to the effect of, 'And as you can see, your missing organ is well-kept in the hands of Admiral Norrington.'  Naturally, I had to produce the blasted thing, and if looks could kill Davy Jones would've made you a widow this very afternoon," he added cynically.

"That was unkind of him," Stella replied stiffly, trying to conceal the terrible spike of fear the thought of widowhood had inspired in her.  "Lord Beckett may as well have painted a gigantic target on your back."

"I thought Jones would run me through right then and there, when I pulled his heart from my coat," James confessed quietly.  "The look he gave me..."

Stella knew.  She could see the look reflected in his heart the same way she could see Elizabeth's—it had terrified him for a reason he couldn't quite name, and had marked him very deeply for that unnamed fear.  Davy Jones' electric blue eyes were full of a fury and impotent rage that promised revenge and painful retribution once he was in a position to enact it, underlain with revulsion and a pain as profound and dark as the ocean itself.

But, though James didn't understand why the glare disconcerted him so deeply beyond the threat of reprisal for having stolen the heart and held it in his keeping, Stella was willing to venture to guess.  Davy Jones, if the stories were to be believed, had only carved out his heart because he'd been crossed in love.  Though the offending organ was gone, the pain still lingered.  Her husband had been likewise pained by a woman as fierce and changing as the sea, and like Jones, the pain was still with him—blunted and dulled by time and distance, but still niggling at the edges of his heart.  The pain in Jones' eyes found a pale echo, every so often, in James'.

"We but see through a glass darkly," Stella murmured.  That was perhaps the reason the eyes of Davy Jones had left such a mark on James' soul: in many ways, the two men (and she used the term loosely in Jones' case) were not so different.

"I assume you refer to Captain Jones and myself?" James inquired, overhearing her comment and correctly surmising the direction of her thoughts.

"Yes."

Looking down at his hands, James confessed, "I wonder if she is still alive."

There was no need to clarify who the "she" in question was.  "I don't know," Stella replied evenly.  Then, grudgingly, like teeth being pulled, "I could scry for her, if you like."

"No," James declined after a moment.  "No.  I just... we should... I need to let her go," he said firmly.  "There is no hope anymore—I may never see her again, and even if I do, there can be nothing between us."  His voice grew quiet.  "I wonder, sometimes, whether I still truly love her, or if I'm merely infatuated with my image of her.  I don't suppose I ever really knew her," he finished wistfully.

Stella wondered how much farther her opinion of Elizabeth Swann could sink.  "Perhaps Davy Jones won't kill you, then," she said coolly.  "If he recognises something kindred in you..."

"Oh, he'll kill me," James interrupted, with a kind of morbid cheer.  "He all but promised to, the moment he gets his heart back.  Beckett is, of course, first on his list, but I fancy I've been flattered with the second spot.  That is, of course," he added dryly, "provided he doesn't kill me to reacquire the heart beforehand."

"Do you still have it?"

"No... when it's not on my person, it's locked in a cabinet in Beckett's office."

"The wretched little coward!" Stella spat.  "He'll take all the advantages of possessing such an object, but he foists all the danger off onto you!"

"I believe it's a test of some sort," James explained thinly.  "I don't believe Lord Beckett is entirely assured of my loyalty.  He doesn't seem to trust anyone but Mercer."

"And there's a very good reason for that," Stella muttered darkly.  "Mercer couldn't betray Beckett even if he wanted to—which he doesn't."

"I don't want to know," James decided after a moment.  "I don't want to know anything.  I just want to do my duty and keep my men safe.  I leave everything magical and eccentric to you—provided it doesn't bring you to the _Dutchman_.  For if Davy Jones discovers that you're my wife, he'll use you against me.  Or just kill you out of sheer spite, depending on his mood."  He took a deep breath.  "I don't want to talk about it any longer."

"All right," Stella agreed quietly.

"May I come to you tonight?"

"Yes."

The danger that had suddenly come to hover around them was sobering, and they were very solemn as they quit the dining room and retired upstairs in silence.  James came to her room and wordlessly took up the brush from her vanity, running it gently through her long hair as she sat at her table and watched him in the mirror.  The motions were soothing for both of them.

"Will you be remaining on land, now?" she asked.

"Mostly, yes," he replied, green eyes downcast and focussed on her hair.  "Generally, Admirals do not sail with their ships.  I'll be sailing a desk, for the most part."

"I confess the knowledge comforts me," Stella remarked.

"I'll miss being out on the sea... commanding a vessel and interacting with the men... but I'm afraid the sea does not think kindly on me at the moment," he returned, meeting her eyes in the mirror and smiling wryly.

Stella tried to return the smile, but she felt ill at ease.  "It will be a stormy season, I think," she said quietly.

"We'll weather it, God willing," James replied.

But even as they curled together under the bedclothes, the anxieties over their future never faded.  It would indeed be a stormy season.


	24. Stella Carmenis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things begin to sour in earnest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Thanks to ConcertiGrossi and ElvenSailorGirl, who are letting me use their alter-egos as supporting characters!_  
> 
> _Now we start to hit a very interesting patch of the story. James and Stella are put in a bit of a tight spot, and things start to go sour in earnest. Despite being a rather sombre chapter, I hope you all enjoy!_  
> 
> I wonder what ever happened to them...

James idly wondered, one day, when the constant worry he was currently living with would turn his hair as white as his wig.

He worried about his position, about his fleet, about supplies and the men under his command, about Lord Beckett's effect on his orders, about his ability to reconcile Lord Beckett's demands with the needs of naval procedures, about Lord Beckett in general, and especially about the effect of Lord Beckett upon his wife... when he wasn't worrying about his wife's health.  And there was plenty to worry about on that score.

After nearly three months married, it was apparent to almost all and sundry that Stella Norrington was with child.  Admittedly, James had expected this—had predicted it, as a matter of fact—but somehow knowing in an abstract that his wife was likely pregnant was nothing to actually seeing the slight swell of her belly.

But there was a constant demand for her wind-strings, and since it was moving into hurricane season Lord Beckett was regularly requesting that Stella divert the larger storms away from his harbours.  That always exhausted her—sometimes to the point where she would have to spend several days in bed, recovering.  Such strain could hardly be good for her health, or for their child.  James had a feeling he was going to have to put his foot down and insist that Lord Beckett leave his wife alone as the pregnancy progressed.

Stella had noticed his worry, and tried to sooth his anxieties.  "Be calm, James," she'd said to him one day at breakfast, after diverting a large storm and spending the next 24 hours in bed. "If this is the worst Lord Beckett ever asks of me, I shall be content.  I am content."

James had to admit this was true.   Stella had taken to her new life like a fledgling bird to the air.  The house was constantly well-kept and open to the soft breezes that followed Stella wherever she went; the menus were simple but satisfying—and unless he was much mistaken, Stella had gained a bit of weight; he could no longer count her ribs at a glance when he came to her bed at night.

She'd settled into the social scene as well; oftimes she could be found in the company of Miss Witcher and Madame d'Ascoyne, or talking children with Mrs. Fitzherbert, and more than once he'd returned home to the sound of female laughter echoing from the parlour.  Governor Swann often dined at the Norrington house as well, looking strained and tired; Stella always served chamomile tea and cut gardenias for the flower vases on those evenings, and poor Weatherby left with a measure more peace than he'd arrived with.  When Lord Beckett descended on their house, Stella received him with cool civility.  They'd held a party a few weeks back to formally celebrate the couple, and the general opinion was that Admiral Norrington's wife was all that was clever and charming.

"Well, at least Mercer is gone," James had replied after a moment.

"That is a contributing factor," Stella had agreed, grinning slyly.  Mr. Mercer had set off nearly two months ago for Singapore, pockets full of wind-strings and a sour expression on his face.  His business in the Far East was supposedly confidential, but Stella hinted that he was hunting pirates—a special kind of pirates.

" _Lord Beckett seeks the Pirate Lords_ ," she'd told him.  " _I do not know why, or to what purpose.  There is some plan in his mind, but I cannot divine it.  He is waiting for something._.."

"One day you really must tell me about Mr. Mercer," James said idly.

"One day I will," Stella agreed.  "When I can be sure Lord Beckett will not mind."  The last was said with a definite air of irony—Stella was well aware that their entire domestic staff was reporting to Lord Beckett.

That had been several weeks ago, but James' worries had been in no way soothed—especially not now.  Stella had bid him tell Lord Beckett this morning, when he went to the Fort, that there was a very, very large hurricane charging towards the Caribbean, and which would likely arrive in Port Royal in a week, perhaps less.

"How unfortunate," Lord Beckett remarked upon receiving the news.  "Well, I trust in your wife's ability to steer the hurricane when the proximity increases."

"I had rather she didn't—this storm is larger than before, and she is always made ill by these endeavours," James said tightly.

"Stella knows her duty," Beckett replied dismissively, returning to his paperwork.

Perhaps it was the familiar way Beckett referred to his wife, compounded by his obvious disregard for her health that pushed him over the edge.  "Aye, she does," he agreed curtly.  "And her duty is to obey me, her husband.  You will have to weather this hurricane as the majority of the world does, Lord Beckett, for I will not have my wife risking her health and the health of our unborn child to cater to your whims.  This fleet has survived many a hurricane without Mrs. Norrington's power, and will have to do so again!"

With that, he bowed curtly and stormed out of the office, preparing to issue orders that the fleet set out to sea to weather the hurricane.

* * *

Had James Norrington understood what he was about to unleash... had he seen the shrewd glimmer in Lord Beckett's eyes and the way his fingers tightened around his pen and had but an inkling of the thoughts running through his mind, perhaps he would have been more temperate with his words.  But as it were, the impending hurricane was not the only storm about to break on Port Royal, and Beckett's plans were now expanded—and accelerated—to include the most recalcitrant Norringtons.

Beckett signalled to one of the footmen, wishing for a brief instant that Mercer, in all his cold efficiency, was here.  "Send Lieutenant Greitzer to me," he ordered.  "We are going to need to move faster than previously thought..." 

* * *

When James returned home, later that afternoon, it was the sound of laughter in the parlour.  Upon sticking his head into the room, he discovered Stella, Anne Witcher, and Caroline d'Ascoyne chatting merrily with their sewing in their laps.

Stella was bent over and pointing at something on Miss Witcher's embroidery hoop, and he overheard her saying, "...called the triple moon, and if you backstitch a bit here, then you can get a triple circle out of it as well."

"A symbol for our merry band," laughed Miss Witcher cheerfully.

 _Merry band?_ thought James confusedly.

Madame d'Ascoyne was the one who noticed him first.  "Why, Admiral Norrington!" she trilled.  "Good evening to you, sir!"

"Good evening, Madame d'Ascoyne, Miss Witcher, Mrs. Norrington," he replied, nodding to each woman in turn.  "What... what a pleasant tableau you present," he stammered, having suppressed the urge to blurt _what are you doing here?_

"My friends have been kind enough to assist me in stitching gowns for our child, given that my health has been uncertain of late," Stella announced, answering the unasked question.

Indeed, now that he had time to peruse the room more closely, it seemed the vast quantity of white fabric was assembling itself into a variety of baby things—a bonnet here, a smock there.  It gave him a curious thrill—he would be a father!  In slightly more than a half-year, there would be a little girl to wear these delicate garments, a tiny child to be encompassed in Stella's powerful embroidery like he was every time he wore his uniform.

"Dear Stella has been teaching us a variety of symbols for health and luck to embroider," Madame d'Ascoyne added, breaking into his train of thought.  "Such amazing skills!"

James took this to be an oblique testing of the waters.  He raised a brow and turned to Stella.  "You told them?"

"Of course," his wife replied serenely.  "I thought it would be rather less distressing if I told them myself, rather than having an unanticipated encounter sometime later."

"It's so entirely fascinating," Miss Witcher breathed.  "We're quite like a coven, I daresay. Maiden, Mother, and Crone."

"I'm hardly a crone, Anne dear," Madame d'Ascoyne protested loftily.

"And I haven't yet given birth," Stella pointed out pragmatically.

Anne Witcher huffed.  "Fine.  Maiden, Almost-mother, and Not-quite-crone," she amended.

"Woman, wife, and widow alliterates better," James remarked.

Stella quirked a brow.  "Yet so entirely prosaic."

"Says the pot to the kettle," he returned dryly.  Then, changing the subject, "How fares the weather?"

"Well enough for now," Stella replied, embroidering a sprig of rosemary into a circular pattern on the edge of a baby's shirt.  "The hurricane is gathering strength out in the Atlantic, but will likely stall a bit over Hispaniola.  However, we will probably be hit ourselves in a week or so."

Madame d'Ascoyne and Miss Witcher emitted various exclamations of distress.  "A hurricane?  How dreadful!" the maiden cried.

"Yes, I'll have to put to sea with the fleet to weather it," James said grimly.  At Stella's quizzical expression, he added sternly, "You are not to touch this one, Mrs. Norrington.  I'll not have you risking your health in your condition."

"Eminently sensible," lauded Madame d'Ascoyne.

"I won't claim that I am not relieved," Stella agreed, smiling slightly.  "I have had quite enough bed-rest during the past few months, and will no doubt have plenty more in the future."  Still, her black eyes met his, and James read the unease in their depths.  He knew she was wondering how Lord Beckett was going to take this news.

That wondering became the elephant in the room for the rest of the evening.  Eventually Madame d'Ascoyne and Miss Witcher took their leave of the Norrington house (by then, James had already sequestered himself in his study, ostensibly to escape the feminine fluttery in the parlour).  Caroline d'Ascoyne was to join Stella in the house once the hurricane hit—neither woman wanted to be alone, and Madame d'Ascoyne figured that it would be safer with a wind-witch than anywhere else.  Stella had extended a standing invitation for the Witcher family as well; Anne promised to put the idea forth to her parents.  Soon after, James and Stella sat down for a small supper.  The elephant went with them.  It wasn't until they had retired, away from the ears of the servants reporting to Beckett, that they were able to discuss the matter.

"While I admire your gumption," Stella said, after James outlined the day's encounter with Cutler Beckett, "I do have to question the wisdom of this endeavour."

"As long as we're discussing questionable ventures, why tell your friends about your... er..."

"Gifts?" Stella supplied.  "Because if I tell them first, then I'm pulling one of Beckett's fangs."

James pondered this for a moment.  "I believe I understand... if you confess, so to speak, you sway the description in your favour."

"Precisely.  It's one less secret of mine that Beckett has to use against me. What about this course of action do you find questionable, pray tell?"

"Well..." James couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't make him sound like an ass.

Stella's smirk seemed to indicate she was aware of this.  "I've never tried to hide what I am, James," she pointed out.  "I'm not ashamed of being a witch.  And admitting to a measure of supernatural ability to a circle of trusted confidents is not the same as openly defying our powerful patron," she added sharply.  "He implied, when we were first married, that we had his protection and support only while we did as he asked."

"I don't care," James replied mulishly.  "He has no right to ask you to kill yourself.  You're with child, for Heaven's sake."

It had terrified him, these past few months, to watch Stella turn away the storms that encroached on their island, all at Beckett's demand.  She would go out to the balcony and stand there, quite still, perhaps fiddling with the bells around her neck as she stared off into the sky.  The air around her would grow restless and electrical, the wind roaring through the port town and across the sea.  And eventually, when her task was done, she would stagger, knees buckling as she grasped for the railing.  If it were a large storm, she would swoon entirely—simply collapse in a forlorn little bundle of fabric and hair if James were not swift enough to catch her.  She would always need his help to get back to bed, and then she would lie prone, like a doll, while faithful Estrella manoeuvred her into her nightgown.  And for the next day—or more, perhaps—Stella, would lie there quietly with the curtains drawn, with dark circles beneath her eyes and an ashen pallor to her skin.

He'd known, then, that if Beckett's demands didn't kill Stella outright, it would certainly weaken her to the point where she could no longer carry their child.  He couldn't let Beckett take that away from them.

"I suppose," Stella admitted, responding to his stubborn pronouncement.  "But I am stronger than I look—we all are.  Our powers help us along."

"That still doesn't give him the right to run you ragged," James returned firmly.  "You agreed to assist him as you could, but I won't have you risking your health for him.  And since you married me, mine is the voice you must obey."

Stella raised an eloquent brow, but didn't contest the statement—mainly because, James felt, she had a mind to do as he asked anyway.  "As you will, my dear," she replied, with suspicious mildness.  "I hope Lord Beckett understands.  I've been so happy, I don’t want him to ruin it."

Later, James felt his wife should reassess her proclamation that she had no gift for prophesy. 

* * *

When it happened, it happened quickly.

" _In order to affect a timely halt to deteriorating conditions and to ensure the common good, a state of emergency is declared for these territories, by decree of Lord Cutler Beckett, duly appointed representative of His Majesty the King_..."

Governor Swann, with a heavy heart, had signed Beckett’s orders, giving them further weight under the law. Not that it mattered.  And the speed with which the East India Trading Company troops established martial law in the town of Port Royal spoke of prearranged plans, and Stella mentally filed that fact into the puzzle of Beckett’s intentions.

" _By decree, according to martial law, the following statutes are temporarily amended_...

" _Right to assembly, suspended_."

She felt very alone.  Not only had James gone out to sea, but the citizens were being isolated from one another.  No one felt safe.

" _Right to_ habeas corpus _, suspended_."

Beckett's men could enter into any home and simply cart away whomever they wished.  There would be no appeal, no protest.  It was turning into a witch-hunt, and Stella was understandably rather worried about this caveat in particular.

" _Right to legal counsel, suspended_."

She wasn't the only one; a heavy cloud of fear hung low over Port Royal.

" _Right to verdict by a jury of peers, suspended_.

Soldiers charged into and out of the homes of those suspected of piracy, or sympathising with piracy.  The sound of the tramping boots marching through the streets, and rattling chains as those arrested were borne to the fort had become common music in the troubled times.

" _By decree, all persons found guilty of piracy, or of aiding a person convicted of piracy, or associating with a person convicted of piracy, shall be sentenced to hang by the neck until dead_."

The fear spread to every household, both high and low.  After all, before the Governor had arrived the city had been a haven for pirates; almost everyone had, knowingly or not, interacted with a pirate at one time or another.  It was terrifying to wonder whether an exchange ten years ago would bring soldiers to the door tomorrow.

Though Governor Swann put his name to the orders, everyone knew that Lord Beckett had become the law in Jamaica.  The kid gloves were off, and he'd shown his hand for what it was.  Massive gallows were constructed in Fort Charles, and the cells were rapidly filling with the accused.  Thus far, they were mostly populated with the lower-class citizens—sailors, whores, tavern-keepers.  But Mrs. Norrington wasn't sure how long that state of affairs was going to last; she had a feeling that her time was running out.

James had been sent to sea, and so would remain for today and likely tomorrow.  He was out on _The Endeavour_ inspecting the fortifications at Rocky Point and ensuring that the fleet was preparing for the impending hurricane.  He was stretched tighter than a fiddle string with fear for his fleet.  And he'd left just before martial law descended.  Stella didn't think this was coincidental.

She stood on the balcony that late morning and looked out to sea.  A faint niggling at the very edge of her senses heralded the presence of the growing tempest, coming closer with every passing day.

 _Whatever move Beckett will make, he will make it very soon_ , she thought as the breezes toyed with her cotton skirts.  _He cannot afford to wait much longer.  The hurricane comes_.

"Ma'am?"

Stella didn't bother to turn.  "Yes, Estrella?"

"Are you all right, Ma'am?  Shall I send for some tea?"

Morning sickness had, for the most part, been infrequent.  However, as the stress increased, so too did her discomfort in the mornings.  Stella hadn't been able to eat breakfast for days.  "Yes," she said, after a moment of contemplation.  "Yes, I think tea would be quite nice.  Perhaps with some toast.  I will take it in the parlour downstairs."

And that was where she was sitting when they came for her.

Part of her had expected it, had known they would come for her.  Part of her had known the moment it began to happen that it was Lord Beckett's hand reaching out to pull her into his power.  But she had hoped, hoped desperately that the tempest would leave her alone, hoped that the child slumbering in her womb would protect her mother from the rising tide of death and danger.

As usual, she had hoped in vain.

She closed her eyes and steeled herself as she heard the pounding on the door.  Her hands unconsciously went to rest on her belly, and she bowed her head for a brief moment.  But then, when she heard the butler open the door and the soldiers demand her presence, she tucked it all away.

 _Don't ever let them see your fear,_ she reminded herself.  _Don't let them see._

"Lieutenant Greitzer," she greeted calmly as she heard the heavy tread of booted feet outside the parlour door.  Well aware that most soldiers would never dream of laying hands on a gentlewoman, she made sure to take refuge in civility and gentility. "May I offer you a cup of tea?"

"I'm afraid not, Madam," Greitzer replied coldly.  "We are here on company business."

"Company business?" Stella repeated sweetly, narrowing her eyes slightly at the officer in her parlour.  He was fully Beckett's man; there would be no reasoning with him.  But as for the others...  "What business can the East India Trading Company have with me?"

"Madam, you are hereby under arrest for crimes against the crown.  You are charged with associating with persons convicted of piracy, and we are here to escort you to a cell."

Stella gave a feigned gasp that probably looked real enough to the soldiers, and placed her hand on her chest to prominently display the rings on her left hand, reminding the lot of them that she was the wife of their superior officer.  "You surely must be joking!" she cried.

"We are entirely serious, Mrs. Norrington.  We have the writ right here," Greitzer replied smugly, gesturing to a very uncomfortable redcoat standing to his right.

"Then, if you please?" she requested, standing and gliding over to the man.  She extended her hand as she rang for Estrella.

Unfolding the writ, she perused it while listening for Estrella's footsteps.  It bore Governor Swann's signature, and she wondered idly whether or not he knew he'd signed the order for her imprisonment, or if he but put his seal to every document Beckett gave him.  Otherwise, it was just as Greitzer said: she was arrested for associating with pirates.  Beckett had her there, she had to admit: everyone knew she'd lived on Tortuga before marrying James, and it was nigh on impossible to live on Tortuga and not interact with pirates.

Even worse, she had a feeling that Beckett knew about her former source of income.  That information would be highly damning if it was spread around.  But it wasn't in the writ—Beckett might be keeping it quiet as something to dangle over her head.  Blackmail was, after all, essential for the standoff in which they found themselves.  Stella didn't think he was actually going to hang her—she was entirely too useful, and she was pregnant besides—but Beckett wasn't going to leave her any choice but to do as he wanted.

 _I would applaud your strategy, Lord Beckett, but I'm afraid I'm quite vexed with you_ , she thought unhappily as Estrella approached.

"Ma'am?" Estrella looked both baffled and afraid at all the soldiers in the parlour.

"Estrella.  Would you be so good as to bring me my hat, parasol, and cloak?"  She looked up to meet her maid's frightened eyes and smiled humourlessly.  "It seems I will be spending an indeterminate amount of time in the cells of Fort Charles."

"But... but you're the admiral's wife!  You're a lady!  You're with child!" Estrella protested, frowning at the redcoats.

Stella was vindictively pleased to see a good half of them flush and look elsewhere, and she gave a helpless shrug.  "I have no choice, I'm afraid," she said softly.  "My things?"

"Of course, Ma'am."

Soon enough, Estrella returned with Stella's cloak, hat, and parasol.  Stella was glad that Grietzer allowed her to fetch her things and hadn't just hauled her off to prison.  He was bold, but not that bold, it seemed—or perhaps he didn't think he could survive such an attempt.  If his own men didn't revolt, James would certainly be furious later.

Estrella touched her hand lightly as Stella accepted the parasol.  "Be safe, Ma'am," she whispered, smiling warmly.

"Thank you, Estrella.  Do tender my apologies to Miss Witcher," she replied calmly.  Stella had made sure Anne or Caroline were either over for tea or hosting her every day since the right to assembly was suspended so that, if she were arrested, her disappearance would be immediately noticed.  That, and she knew that whatever Beckett trumped up, Anne and Caroline were loyal to her.  Caro especially took particular relish in referring to Beckett as "that jumped-up parvenu."

The soldiers surrounded her as they brought her outside.  There were no other prisoners, for which Stella was grateful.  It would have made it harder to hold her head high were she chained to the line and forced to march through the streets like the other prisoners she watched pass through the streets for the past few days.  Nevertheless, she was still forced to endure the stares of the other citizens on her way to the Fort.  Some regarded her with pity, some with resignation, some with fear—if the Admiral's wife could be arrested, no one was safe.

She passed through the gates of Fort Charles; it was still bustling with soldiers.  In the centre bailey she could see the back of the gallows, and the line of prisoners waiting for their turn in them.  She was marched past the corpse wagon, where the dead were piled together, some faces already turning bloated and blue, and the pile of boots taken off the hanged men.  And in a niche across the bailey, facing the gallows, was the man who was the prime mover behind all the death and pain.

He sat at a collapsible table, bent diligently over some manner of paperwork, not even bothering to witness the deaths of those affected by his actions.  Stella glared across the courtyard at him.  _These people are dying by your order, Beckett,_ she thought poisonously.  _The least you could do is watch them do so._

As if sensing her thoughts, Lord Beckett looked up from his papers.  Their eyes met, Stella's icy and irate, Beckett's chill and confident.  And then Beckett smiled—just a small curl of the lips, but Stella saw.  Never before had she wished as fervently that her glares could kill as she did at that moment, right before she passed the gallows queue and descended into the prison block.

The darkness was jarring, after the late morning sun.  It took her eyes a moment to adjust, but she could see clearly once they emerged from the stairwell.  The cells were full of those convicted—save for the one in the middle of the row.  The majority of the prisoners were from the lower classes, and stared curiously as Stella was shown into the empty cell.  Then the door clanged shut behind her, and the lock slid into place with a terrible finality.

Stella sighed. This round most definitely went to Lord Cutler Beckett.  

* * *

Hers was the cell Elizabeth Swann had once inhabited, back when everything was only just beginning.  Stella could feel the echo of Elizabeth's presence when she sat on the bench against the wall.  _He put me here on purpose._

The area was curiously chilly, despite the heat of the day.  Then again, the garrets faced toward the sea, and there was an almost-constant breeze wafting through, which plucked playfully at Stella's skirts as she went to remove her hat.  Otherwise, the stone was damp and beginning to go slimy in some places, and there was an almost palpable aura of fear and despair pervading the entire room, and something else...

She hadn't noticed it before, what with all her attention bent towards the approaching hurricane and the roar of its power in her mind.  But there was something magical on the breeze... words?  A tune, definitely—something that would surely get stuck in her head.  It was faint, but growing, swirling around especially among the condemned in the cells.  Could they hear it?

Stella seated herself gingerly on the stone bench ringing the walls, smoothing her hair mechanically and thinking profoundly uncharitable thoughts towards meddling Trading Company Lords—at least, until her fantasies of murdering Lord Beckett were interrupted.

"So, wot's a fine bit o' skirt like ye doin' in 'ere wiv the likes o' us?"

The query came from the men's cell next to her, and a tall, unwashed man wearing a floppy hat with ragged feathers.  Once, Stella suspected, he had probably been a fairly successful pirate.  No longer.

"I suspect I've been arrested to prove a point," she replied honestly.  "That, and I've been convicted of associating with those convicted of piracy," she added, mimicking Lieutenant Greitzer's stuffy tones.

A burst of incredulous laughter came from her other side—the female cell—and a woman not too much older than herself.  She had once been a whore; her clothing was dirty but gaudy, and her tired brown eyes were rimmed with makeup long since messed.  "You?  High class toff like you, convicted o' that?" the erstwhile whore scoffed.

Stella felt irrationally perturbed.  She'd once been the most feared woman on the entire island of Tortuga... not that it was something she wanted generally known around her new home, but still.  "Have you ever been to Tortuga?" she inquired lightly.

"Aye," replied the man, leaning against the bars.

"Have you ever heard of Black Stella?"

"'Oo 'asn't?  The wind witch o' Tortuga—afore she vanished."  Stella raised a significant brow and titled her chin upwards.  "You?"

"Me," she replied smugly, resting her hand on her chest.  "Before my marriage took me off the island, of course."  Her black eyes went to the whore in the other cell, and she smiled.  "I've associated with more than my fair share of pirates."

"And now you'll hang for it," the whore sneered.

"Not for at least another six months," Stella replied sweetly, patting her belly.

The whore huffed furiously, and stomped away to the other side of the cell.  Meanwhile, something of a scuffle had broken out in the cell full of men, and Stella glanced over to see a couple of large men roughing up a lad who probably wasn't any older than ten—he still had the shining clarity of spirit found only in children, and it stood out like a candle at midnight.

"Let go—it's mine!" the boy was shouting.

"Give it up, lad," one of them snorted, catching the boy on the scruff of his neck and shaking him.  "T'wont' be any use t'ye—ye'll hang come mornin'!"

Contrary to popular belief, Stella liked children quite a bit.  She was frigid and unpleasant to the majority of adults, but children were spared her bitterness, and she was quite gentle with all the children who crossed her path.  They were generally untainted by life's cruelties and hadn't had much time to loose their innocence—and if they had, they deserved her compassion, since it was so seldom their own faults.  So she grasped hold of the wind and channelled it into a tight funnel, which she used to shove the men away from the boy and slam them into the walls.

The prison went very quiet, and everyone turned to look at the gentlewoman sitting very genteelly in the middle cell.  "Leave him be," she commanded coldly.  "If he hasn't any need for whatever it is, then neither do you.  Leave him be."

The boy, sensing he had an advocate, immediately yanked himself away and scurried for the bars his cell shared with Stella's, curling up in the corner.  The other men congregated as far from him—and Stella—as they could.  They couldn't go far; the cell was very full.

"Thanky, Ma'am," the boy mumbled.  He was a skinny lad, with shaggy brown hair and a bit of a scrape on his forehead.

"What was all the fuss about?" Stella inquired gently, sliding over on the bench so she was closer to the boy she'd saved.

The boy opened one of his clenched fists to reveal a coin—a silver piece of eight, unless her eyes deceived her.  "Belonged to me Da," he explained quietly.

Her hand went up to touch the string of silver bells that hung faithfully around her neck.  "Then that's a good reason to keep it."  She smiled.  "How did you come to be here, pray tell?"

He shrugged.  "Me ship got caught by the navy, two days back.  Killed most of us... cap'n, first mate... took th' rest back here.  I was cabin boy—dint know t'were a pirate ship when I signed on, though.  I just wanted out o' Boston."

"What's your name?"

"John Osborn.  Most people call me Jack."  He smiled shyly at her, looking up through his fringe with clear blue eyes.

"Hello, Jack," Stella replied warmly, offering him her thin white hand.  He took it and shook it gently in his small, yet already rough one.  "I'm Stella Norrington."

"Norrington?  The admiral?"

"Yes."

His young brow furrowed.  "Did you make him mad?"

Stella laughed.  "No, not at all.  He's gone out to sea for a few days.  I did, however, make Lord Beckett mad," she remarked glumly.

"He can't hang you, though," Jack noted.

"No, but he can make me quite uncomfortable."

Jack looked down at the piece of eight in his hand.  "I’m going to be hanged."

She took a quick, sharp breath.  "But you're only a boy!"

"Old enough, I guess," he shrugged.  But underneath the bravado, Stella could tell he was terrified; his tiny hands were trembling.

She knew well enough how harsh the world—and the British—could be, and slid her hand through the bars to rest it on Jack's head.  "I'm sorry."

Jack swallowed heavily, and looked back at her.  "Will it hurt, do you think?"

Something clenched painfully in Stella's chest.  "There are worse ways to die," she said thickly.

' _...Never shall we die...'_

She ended up sitting in the corner of her cell, propped up on the bench between the bars and the wall, right in the next to little Jack.  She told him stories—myths and legends, as well as the story of Mirela o Washosko García—all through the afternoon to distract him from his impending fate and the steady beat of the drums.  She kept the gentle breezes swirling around them during the heat of the day.  When evening fell, and the air began to cool, she slid half her thick black cloak through the larger grated square, and wrapped it around Jack's thin shoulders.   As night descended, they curled up to share body heat, set apart from the rest of the condemned in their own little cocoon.

In the darkness, Stella suggested that Jack get some sleep.   The boy clenched his fists in the black fabric of her cloak, and his fear rose up in him like a cresting wave.  "I don't want to sleep yet."

"Fair enough," Stella demurred, smoothing back the boy's shaggy hair.

"Me mam used to do that," he mumbled softly, leaning into her touch.

"Where is she now?"

"Dead."

"My mother's dead too.  But she's waiting for me, on the shores of the other side.  Your mother will wait for you too," Stella said softly.

"Will she?"

"Of course.  I would."

"But what if she doesn't?" Jack asked forlornly.  Stella could see that he barely recalled his mother—a whore up in the thirteen colonies who'd barely had time for him when she'd been alive.

She brushed his hair back again.  "Then you go find my mother.  Find her, and tell her I asked her to look after you," Stella whispered to him.  "She'll see you safely to Fiddler's Green."

'... _and the Devil to pay, we lay to Fiddler's Green_...'

"I don't want to die," Jack whimpered, curling up against the bars.

"And you shouldn't have to," Stella replied fiercely.  "You... just got caught up in something larger than yourself."

Jack rubbed his piece of eight, and Stella's eyes watched it gleam in the dim light. The words on the air were growing stronger, and the tune was complete in the quiet desperation of the prison cells.  A faint ringing sounded in her ears.

' _...Hoist the colours high.._.'

"Are you scared?" he asked suddenly.

"Yes," Stella replied honestly.  "Yes, I'm terrified.  I don't know what he wants from me, and I don't know what he'll do to get it.  I don't know what will happen to my husband, or my daughter.  And I'm afraid for you too."  She tightened her arm around his shoulders, drawing him as close as the bars would allow.

"Mayhaps I won't die tomorrow," Jack offered optimistically, though the tone of his voice indicated he was trying to appease her, rather than actually believing in Beckett's clemency.

"Perhaps you won't," Stella agreed, building another fantasy palace of things that could never be.  "Perhaps Beckett will let both of us go free tomorrow.  We'll both go back to my house... give James a bit of a surprise when he returns.  You'd stay there, and we'd get you an apprenticeship, or send you off to school where you'll be safe until Beckett falls."

"Will he?"

"He will," Stella vowed lowly.  "He will, even if I have to kill him myself."

"Mrs. Norrington?  Will... will you see me buried right?  When I'm dead?" Jack asked her haltingly.  "Maybe... say some words o'er me?  If you can—if you gets let out."

Stella felt her eyes water, but swallowed the tears.  She had to be strong for Jack.  "I will.  I promise.  Shall I plant you a bush or a hedge?  I planted orchids over my mother's grave."

"Somethin'... somethin' happy."

"Then I'll plant you hibiscuses, and make sure your grave is tended properly."  She brushed her fingers through his hair and started humming the song she'd been hearing since she set foot in the cell.

' _...the bell has been raised from its watery grave_...'

"What song is that?" Jack asked.  "My coin's shaking."

"May I see it?"  Jack handed her the coin through the bars; sure enough, it started vibrating as Stella hummed the tune quietly.  The silvery ring in her ears got stronger.  The words to the song floated into her mind, and they sprang from her lips without any input from her.  She was the vessel, the one who could hear the Song, and the Song would have itself sung.  It was time.

_"The King and his men_

_"Stole the queen from her bed,_

_"And bound her in her bones._

_"The seas be ours, and by the powers,_

_"Where we will, we'll roam._

  

_"Yo-ho, haul together,_

_"Hoist the colours high._

_"Heave-ho, thieves and beggars,_

_"Never shall we die..."_

"That's a pirate song," Jack noted sleepily.  His head was beginning to loll onto her shoulder through the grate—no matter what he said about not sleeping, the poor lad was still tired.

"Yes, it is," Stella agreed, mind whirling furiously.  There was magic in the Song—strong magic.  It was a calling of some kind, to be sung as a summons.  But to summon who?  Pirates?  The mysterious pirate lords sought so earnestly by Beckett?  Was this why he was hanging anyone and everyone connected to pirates with such fervency?  To get this Song sung, and summon the Pirate Lords?

Whatever his plans, Stella would Sing anyway—perhaps if the Song was sung and the summons sent, the hangings would stop and little Jack Barber would live to see another birthday.

She tucked Jack's piece of eight back into his hand, and his fist curled slowly around it.  And then she brushed his fringe out of his eyes, wrapped her arm firmly around his shoulders, and began to sing softly.  The magic of the Song filled her voice, and though the words were quiet, it was heard throughout the prison.

_"The King and his men_

_Stole the Queen from her bed,_

_And bound her in her bones._

_The seas be ours, and by the powers,_

_Where we will, we'll roam..._

_"Yo-ho, haul together,_

_Hoist the colours high!_

_Heave-ho, thieves and beggars,_

_Never shall we die!_

_Some men have died,_

_And some are alive,_

_And others sail on the sea_

_With the keys to the cage_

_And the Devil to pay_

_We lay to Fiddler's Green!_

_"Yo-ho, haul together,_

_Hoist the colours high!_

_Heave-ho, thieves and beggars,_

_Never shall we die!_

_"The bell has been raised_

_From its watery grave..._

_Do you hear its sepulchral tone?_

_We are a call to all,_

_Pay heed to the squall_

_And turn your sail toward home!"_

As her voice faded into silence, taking the Song with it, Stella glanced down to see that Jack had fallen asleep.  Smiling sadly, she tucked the cloth of her cloak tighter around his shoulders.  It was so unfair... he was only a child, still a pure soul.  It wasn't right that he should die for the mere crime of ignorantly sailing under the wrong colours.

"Please," she whispered to the darkness, and anyone who might be listening.  "Please, I beg you.  Spare him." 

* * *

 The whispering breezes woke Stella as dawn spread over the eastern horizon.  She'd fallen asleep with her head resting on Jack's, though her sleep had been troubled and uncomfortable.  The stone bench that served as her bed was harder than any surface she'd ever had to sleep on, and the chill of the night and the damp of the stone had seeped into her bones.  And the fear that permeated the atmosphere of the prison followed her into sleep as well.  Her dreams had been dark.

Jack was still slumbering, his fist curled around his piece of eight.  The Song was still wafting about, but it was quiet as well.  The early morning was still and peaceful, and Stella used the quiet to steel herself for the coming day.  It would be bad.

She brushed a hand through Jack's messy hair, her touch as light as the breeze.  He was going to die today.  Nine years old, and his life was about to end.  The unfairness of it sat like a block of ice against her neck.  The cunning, crafty part of her scolded her for getting too attached; the rest of her was already weeping for his death.

Soon enough, the sound of stomping boots filtered down into the cells.  The prisoners began to stir, and fear spread like a stink through the air.  They knew that death was coming at a fast clip.  Little Jack came awake as well; Stella could feel him stirring.

"Good morning, Jack," she said quietly.

"Ma'am," he replied shakily.  She reached out and took his hand; it was cold. "I'm scared," he confessed.  The soldiers' footsteps were coming closer.

"Don't let them see," Stella said intently, tilting his chin up to meet his blue eyes.  "No matter how afraid you are, don't let them see it.  It gives them power, and that's something they already have enough of."

The redcoats flooded down the stairs, carrying the shackles with them.  They opened the doors and started pulling people out of them, chaining them in lines to march up to the gallows.  Jack's eyes went impossibly wide, and filled with tears.  His hands were like two chunks of ice, and they were shaking like palm fronds in the breeze.  He clung to her desperately.

"Be brave," Stella whispered.  "I'll be with you."

And then the soldiers came, and tore him from her arms.

He was chained in the line with the rest of them, though the shackles were nearly too large for his skinny limbs and made it almost impossible for him to move.  Stella stood and went to the door of the cell, reaching through the grate to brush her fingers across his arm.

"Be brave," she whispered again.  And then they all marched away.

Stella stood in the same place, hands wrapped around the bars, for hours.  She was alone—everyone else had been chained and marched off to death.  She could hear the drums, and the creak-thump of the gallows.  The breeze curled around her, and she whispered encouragements and endearments to the breeze, which blew off to carry her words to little John Osborn.

"I'll be brave, Ma'am," came Jack's voice to her ears.

And Stella knew it was his turn.

Her hands tightened around the cell bars until her knuckles were white.  She might have been carved from ivory, so still was she.  Jack started singing the Song, the magical melody she'd crooned into his ears last night as a last lullaby.  The tune was taken up by the rest of the condemned.

_"Yo-ho, haul together,_

_"Hoist the colours high._

_"Heave-ho, thieves and beggars._

_"Never shall we die!"_

Stella could feel it resonating and travelling and doing what it was meant to do.  It went even further on the wind, through her own power.

And then it stopped.

Jack Osborn was dead. 

* * *

A few hours later, she was summoned to Lord Beckett, holding court in her husband's office.  And so she buried her grief under her fury and froze the lot of it in ice, and followed the soldiers out into the fort.

"Mrs. Norrington."

"Lord Beckett."

"I trust your accommodations are satisfactory."

"Quite satisfactory, my Lord... for a cell.  When may I return home?"

"You shan't.  You are condemned, and will hang once you are no longer with child."

"Come now, Lord Beckett.  You know very well how useful I am.  There is something you want.  What is it?"

They stood, facing each other—two people with daggers in their eyes and ice in their voices.  Beckett was immaculate in his russet coat and pristine white wig; Stella was looking a little worse for having spent the night in jail—her hair was simply braided and her cotton dress was wrinkled and smudged.

And now the bargaining began.  Stella's stint in prison was Beckett's way of making a point.  James had denied him what he wanted, and now he was simply finding a different way of getting it.  That he was simultaneously bringing her low was but a fringe benefit.

"I think you know what it is I want," Beckett replied coolly.

"It's too late for me to turn the hurricane away," Stella informed him.  "It's too close, and too strong."

Beckett merely pursed his lips.  "My desires are not nearly so minuscule.  I believe we had an arrangement regarding your usage to the East India Trading Company."

"We did," Stella agreed.  "And I have upheld my part of it.  I have provided you with wind in every direction there is, to every ship you have.  I have turned away more than one storm for you—which, I might add, has been quite detrimental to my own health."

"Yet you defied me," Beckett stated coldly.

Stella shrugged.  "I vowed to obey my husband."

"Ah yes... your husband.  The estimable Admiral Norrington.  Davy Jones quite hates him," Beckett remarked conversationally.

"I'm well aware of Jones' antipathy," she replied curtly.  "An antipathy that you have had no small part in inspiring.  Some discretion regarding your acquisition of the Heart would have been appreciated."

Beckett didn't bother to reply to that.  "Given Captain Jones' dislike for the Admiral, I have refrained from sending him out to the open ocean, where he would be... vulnerable."

"The Kraken."

"Just so."  Black met blue, and Beckett smiled thinly.  "I trust you understand."

Stella's hands clenched in her cotton skirts.  Oh, she understood.  If she didn't do as Beckett commanded, then he'd send James out to be killed by the Kraken.

"You're a rather dreadful little coward, Cutler," she commented idly.

"And you, Stella, are a miserable, sneering bitch," Beckett replied congenially.  He stared at her with a thin, humourless little smile on his face, apparently contemplating something.  Then, faster than a snake striking, he lashed out and slapped her across the face.

Stella cried out in shock and pain.  Nobody had dared to lay a hand on her for nearly fifteen years—in fact, the last person who had struck her was her father's wife.  Hence, Beckett's blow took her completely by surprise.  She staggered slightly, and Beckett took advantage of that.  She was slammed into the stone wall with his soft, aristocratic hands wrapped around her neck before her cheek had even stopped stinging.

"How I despise you," Beckett hissed into her ear, his breath hot against her skin.  "All of you.  You think you're so very superior to the rest of us mere mortals... but I've got the better of you, haven't I, Stella?  You'll do whatever it is I ask, or I'll tear everything you love away from you before I crush you beneath my heel.  You're at my mercy—I'm the one with the power.  You're no better than I tell you to be."

Stella merely gasped in return, and scrabbled madly at his hands.   Beckett tightened his grip.  "I'll destroy all of you," he crooned softly, his gentle voice at odds with his words.  "I'll bend you all to my will and have you all under my power—I'll be the superior.  And when I've tired of you, you'll be eliminated.  The supernatural has become superfluous.  You and your kind have no further place in the world.   You'll simply sink into legend and myth, until even those are forgotten."

Her vision was beginning to break up, and black spots filled her eyes.  Her hands still scratched futilely at Beckett's, but his grip on her neck was unyielding.

And then he let go.

Stella's knees buckled, and she collapsed to the ground, coughing and gasping for air.  She looked up at Beckett, horror shining unvarnished in her black eyes.

"However, you were correct," he commented, once again the impeccable aristocrat, picking up the threads of their conversation as if he hadn't just had a go at strangling her to death.  "You are useful—for now—and your death would run contrary to my plans.  Therefore, you will live.  You will do as I command, or Admiral Norrington will have an encounter with the Kraken.  Cross me, and I'll take everything from you.  Do you understand?"

Stella didn't think she could speak just now, and nodded her surrender.

"Good."  Beckett smiled again, and something terrible gleamed in his blue eyes.   "Pity... I rather like the sight of you lying at my feet."

She had never hated anyone as she hated Cutler Beckett just then.

"You'll remain in your cell until your husband arrives and releases you," Beckett went on, retreating behind James' desk.  "I trust you'll remember what we discussed?"  A nod.  "The fleet will be setting out to weather the hurricane tomorrow.  You will accompany us.  This is not a condition up for discussion, so do be sure to emphasise this to your husband when he arrives.  Until then, my dear."

If the guards thought there was anything amiss with the lady on the ground and the bruises appearing on her pale neck when they entered the room, they said nothing as they escorted her back to her cell. 

* * *

James anchored in the harbour of Port Royal in the early evening.  The forts on the east of the island were as prepared as they were going to get.  He could feel the approaching hurricane; it made his head ache.  And his nerves were already jangling—this would be the first storm he'd had to weather since the hurricane that had lost him the _Dauntless_.  He felt as though he had something to prove, not only to Beckett, but to himself as well.

He wanted to talk to Stella about possible plans for minimising the damage to the fleet, as well as what she thought of his chances of emerging reasonably unscathed.  But first, he had to report to Lord Beckett, who was probably in his office.

James was, however, gobsmacked when he re-entered the fort.  Who'd erected those gallows?  Who were all these dead people?  Why were they all being killed?  What in God's name was going on?

The sense of incredulity got stronger when he stepped into his office.  There was Beckett, behind his desk, and there was a contingent of leading citizens—Mr. Witcher, the landowner; Mr. Stanhope, the judge; Mr. Fitzherbert, Mr. Merriman, Mr. Lucas—even Madame d'Ascoyne.  Apparently, there was a disagreement of sorts going on.

"...bad form, Lord Beckett.  Really, the lass has done nothing wrong, 'cept make land in a bad place ten years ago," Mr. Lucas was saying.

Mr. Witcher agreed.  "My Anne tells me she only landed there because she and her mother were robbed by pirates in the first place.  And she is a gentlewoman, after all."

"Regardless, Mr. Witcher, she is clearly guilty under the current stat—"

"Oh really, Lord Beckett!" Caroline d'Ascoyne interrupted.  Her brother had a seat on the East India Trading Company Court of Directors, and that was probably the only reason she had the stones to interrupt him.  "You can't hang her—she's with child!  And there's no reason to keep her here—if you absolutely must hang her, send release her and let her enjoy the comfort of her own home before she dies."

James had a bad feeling about this conversation, and pinched the bridge of his nose.  "Lord Beckett, if I inquire as to the topic of conversation, am I going to hear something upsetting?" he queried, interrupting the conversation.

"Ah, Admiral Norrington.  Welcome back," Lord Beckett announced calmly, with a strange sort of smile on his lips.

"What's going on?" James repeated.

"Just a little housecleaning," Beckett replied lightly.

"He's put your wife in prison," Mr. Fitzherbert blurted.

"He's done what?"  James whipped his head around to stare at Lord Beckett.  "You did what?"

Beckett's eyes were gleaming.  "Clearly, it was a badly judged decision.  Gentlemen, lady: I have heard your concerns.  Mrs. Norrington will be free by nightfall."

The gathering was dispersed shortly thereafter, leaving James and Beckett in his office alone.  "You put my wife in prison?" James asked, breaking the silence.

"We made an agreement, when you first entered my service," Beckett said calmly.  "You would serve as Admiral, your wife would serve as our celestial benefactress, so to speak.  That was the bargain.  Yet you have refused to allow your wife to uphold her side of it.  Therefore, she steps out of the realm of my protection, and she will hang as will all those who sympathise with pirates."

"She's with child!"

"That doesn't protect her from the law."

"From you, you mean," James spat.

"As of now, I am the law."

That declaration hung in the silence, and James felt its weight press upon him.  "You said you were going to release her."

"And so I will.  Your better half has reiterated her commitment to assist my efforts to eliminate piracy; therefore I will set her free."  Beckett stood and meandered around the desk, coming very close to his admiral.  "But mark me well, James Norrington: do not think to interfere again in my business with your wife."

"She's my wife," he ground out between clenched teeth.

"And she'll be your widow if you keep her from doing her part," Beckett pointed out softly.  James had nothing to say to that, merely stared in dawning comprehension at his superior.  Beckett must have seen the growing horror in his eyes, since he smiled and bid him, "Go and release your wife.  I will expect both of you on the _Endeavour_ tomorrow afternoon."

James had no idea what he meant, but didn't think he could remain in close proximity to Beckett any longer without hitting him.  So he merely nodded, and stormed down to the cells.

He found Stella sitting alone under the barred window in her cell, head bowed.  "Starling?"  She looked up at him; her face was very pale, and her eyes were rimmed with red.  "Come, Stella.  Let us return home."

The cell guards unlocked the cell, and the door swung open.  Stella stood and walked to the door, accepting his arm once she left the cell.   And so they walked in silence out the door.

"Wait," Stella said, before they left the bailey.  Her voice was curiously harsh.

James halted, and she took her hand from his arm.  He watched as she went and spoke heatedly to the soldiers manning the corpse wagon.  Then she slapped one of them, and stormed back.  "We're going to the graveyard," she snapped hoarsely.

"Why?"

"I made a promise."

"Stella—"

"No!" she cried, her voice more like a crow than ever before.  In fact, here in the sunlight, James could see a ring of bruises around her slender neck.  "I promised!"

"Your neck... did he do that to you?" he demanded quietly, reaching up a hand to touch the bruises delicately.

"It doesn't matter!" she insisted, and he was stunned to see her black eyes swim with tears.  "Now come with me, or leave me alone!"

Well, he wasn't about to leave her.  And so he followed her to the graveyard, where she once again spoke harshly to the soldiers.  He watched her search the bodies until she found the one she was looking for: the corpse of a small boy.

She had them bury him in a corner, away from the rest.  While the gravediggers dug the plot, Stella went into the jungle and dug up some flowers—hibiscus, James reckoned, but he wasn't a botanist.  They were large, bright flowers in shades of red and orange.  And when the boy's coffin had been buried, Stella carefully planted the hibiscus plants in the freshly turned dirt.

One of the gravediggers brought her a plank of wood; she whispered something, and used her finger to write the words on the makeshift headstone.  Smoke rose in her finger tracks, and James read the words burned into the wood over her shoulder.  " _John Osborn, 1716-1725.  'Never shall we die._ '"  He placed a hand on her shoulder.

"I didn't know his birthday," Stella said quietly.  "That date is only a guess.  All I knew was his name."

"Who was he?" he asked.

"A child in the cell next to me.  He was so afraid," she whispered.  "I sang him a lullaby to soothe him to sleep.  He clung to me all night long.  When they came for him in the morning, they had to tear him from my arms.  But he was so brave at the end.  I promised him I'd bury him, and speak over his grave, and plant flowers for him.  And so I have."

"So you have," James agreed.

Stella stood, and James helped her drive the plank into the ground at the head of the grave.  Then she straightened up, brushed a wisp of flyaway black hair out of her face and rested her thin, white hand on the top.

"'I lift up my eyes to the hills—where does my help come from?'" she quoted gently.  "'My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth.'"  She smiled, and in the fading light, James could see a tear shining on her cheek.  "Turn your sail toward home, Jack, and lay to Fiddler's Green.  Your mother will see you there, and I'll be along myself one day.  You were so brave, little one.  I’m proud of you."

She didn't say much else on the way back to their house.  They had a silent supper, and then Stella was whisked off by Estrella for some coddling.  He came to her later that night, when they were both clean and smelling of lavender.  Stella's hair was loose around her waist, brushed to a fine, gleaming sheen, while the bruises around her neck were turning a livid purple.

"Lord Beckett informed me that you will be accompanying us to sea tomorrow, for the hurricane," James remarked, breaking the silence.

"'What fates impose, that men must needs abide; It boots not to resist both wind and tide'," Stella shrugged, her voice still hoarse.  "I literally had no choice."

"How hard did he squeeze?" he asked, low and angry.

Stella grinned wryly, though her eyes were sad and shimmering with tears.  "Quite hard."

James sighed, sitting beside her on the bed.  "And I can't do anything about it."

"That seems to be a recurring theme," she choked out, before she buried her face in her hands.  And James suddenly realised that she was crying.

It was odd; he'd seen her with tears in her eyes before, but he'd never actually seen her weep.  He hadn't even been sure she could.  Stella was always so poised and confident, crying didn't seem to be anything she had time for.  But she'd just had an incredibly bad couple of days, and the next few days weren't looking to be any better.  And if she couldn't drop her façade, which was apparently thicker than James had previously realised, in the privacy of her own chambers, where could she?

He suddenly felt rather selfish.  He'd been depending so heavily on Stella's strength since entering Beckett's employ, and he hadn't thought that perhaps Stella might need to rely on his strength as well.

So he tenderly wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her into a gentle embrace.  Stella clung to him like a drowning woman, resting her forehead on his chest, and started to truly sob, shoulders shaking with the force of it.  He could feel her tears seeping through the linen of his nightshirt.

And he could do nothing to soothe her.  There was nothing he could say to take away the grief of Jack Osborn's death, or the pain of the bruises ringing her neck, or the terrible knowledge that tomorrow she'd be forced to face a storm large enough to kill her for a man who'd hurt her terribly.  There was nothing he could do to protect her from the storm, from the danger, and least of all from Beckett himself.

On the eve of the second hurricane he'd have to face, James Norrington had never felt so helpless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N part deux: Well, that's chapter 23. Kind of depressing. It doesn't get much happier for hereon out, either. We are entering a very dark part of the story... and also one in which time begins to stretch credulity. I have to admit, it looks like Mercer can actually teleport, since he's popping up everywhere during this film! Either that, or he has clones._  
> 
> _The quotes in this chapter come from the song from AWE, as I'm sure you all recognised, from Psalm 122, and from Shakespeare's Henry VI part III._  
> 
> _Anyway. Please let me know what you think, and if you know where I can find a copy of the AWE script? I've checked Wordplayer or Wordplay or whatever the hell Ted and Terry's website is called, but I haven't found a copy of the screenplay yet. And it'd be nice to have._  
> 
> I found one, eventually.


	25. Stella Procellae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a hurricane.

The sky was cloudy and the wind beginning to pick up as James and Stella Norrington departed their home for the harbour.  They'd left orders that the shutters should be closed and the staff should pass the hurricane in the cellar if it got bad.  Stella tendered her apologies to Caroline d'Ascoyne regarding her inability to honour their plans to pass the storm together; in doing so, she also ensured that the majority of Port Royal would know that Stella Norrington had been forced to take to sea with the fleet.

The admiral of said fleet was so angry he could scarcely see straight.  Not only was Lord Beckett undermining his authority with the navy, he was also interfering in his marriage as well.  James didn't want Stella to do anything about this hurricane except avoid it.  And what were the consequences of his attempt to protect his wife?  Beckett went right over his head and got Stella to do as he wanted anyway.

"Are you afraid?" Stella asked him suddenly as they rode down to the docks in the carriage.  Her voice was still a bit husky from the Beckett-inflicted bruises around her throat.

"More nervous than afraid," James replied.  _And more angry than nervous._

She patted his hand lightly.  "You'll do fine, James.  I'll steer you away from the more violent parts of the hurricane, and do my best to encourage the wind to avoid the ships."

"I wish you didn't have to do this," he sighed helplessly.

"If wishes were horses, beggars would ride."

"Where's the hurricane now?" he inquired, changing the subject as he handed her out of the carriage.

"Hispaniola," she said after a moment, looking out across the ocean.  "I believe it will only graze Jamaica before it veers north.  Cuba will probably take the worst of it—not that Beckett cares, since it's Spanish territory."

"How did the Virgin Islands fare?

"There's a reason you summoned all the ships from the eastern islands to sail for Jamaica," Stella replied dryly.

"That bad?" James winced.  "Where do you think we'll sail?"

"I'd advise going south.  However, Beckett will probably decide to be contrary and order us to sail north," she quipped, lips twisting wryly.  James snorted.

They boarded a longboat which rowed them out to the _Endeavour_ , floating in the increasingly choppy harbour.  A fine mist was beginning to fall, and the ribbons on Stella's hat kept brushing against James' arm as the wind blew them about.   When they boarded the Endeavour, the deck rocking slightly, and Stella, having not gotten her sea legs yet, staggered slightly and clung to James' arm.

Captain Groves met them on deck.  "Welcome aboard, Admiral, Mrs. Norrington," he greeted jovially, as though they had simply shown up for a pleasure cruise.  However, there was something strained around his lips and his eyes were wary as he gazed on the lady.  James didn't need to be able to read people like Stella did to know that Theodore was deeply uncomfortable with Beckett's handling of the situation.

"Captain," James replied mildly.

"Splendid to see you again, Captain Groves," Stella greeted.

Her voice was caw-like, as opposed to the rich coffee smoothness of her usual social tones.  James noted Theodore's brow furrow, and then the narrowing of his eyes as he noted the purple bruises around his wife's neck. "You'll be staying in the same cabin as you always do, Admiral," Groves informed him absently, still eyeing Stella's throat.  "And Lord Beckett wants to see you—both of you—as soon as you're settled."

James' usual cabin was on the starboard side of the ship, up near the main deck.  "You spent time here recently," Stella noted, once they stepped inside.  "Here."  And she walked over to the window.  "You worried."

"Yes.  I'm not at all confident about my ability to lead the men through this hurricane," James admitted.  "I have just as much—more—to loose this time."

"You'll be fine," Stella dismissed simply.  "You've got me on board."

"You're confident."  An oblique question, hidden inside a statement.

"As much as I hate to admit it, Lord Beckett's strategy is sound.  I can influence the way the wind blows if I'm out in it," she admitted.  "Your likelihood of floundering is much less with me aboard than it is without me—and that's the simple truth."

"And how tired will you be when it's over?" he asked darkly.

Stella grinned lopsidedly.  "I don't know—I've never tried this before."

James sat down on the bunk and groaned into his hands.

They hadn't brought much by way of baggage—just some extra clothing, a notebook full of some spells Stella thought she'd need (she didn't want to bring the entire grimoire if there was even the slightest possibility that the ship was going to sink), and some herbs and such.  Thus, it didn't take them long to prepare themselves to face Beckett once more.

He was holding court in the Great Cabin at the stern of the ship; When they entered the room, he looked up and smiled.  "Admiral, Mrs. Norrington.  Good afternoon."

"Lord Beckett."

Beckett strolled over to a desk upon which rested a map of the Caribbean.  "Tell me, Mrs. Norrington: where is the hurricane right now?" 

Stella tapped the island of Hispaniola with her finger, and the two of them were off. James took a back seat to these discussions, and spent most of the time hovering protectively around Stella.  Of course, Beckett didn't try anything—not with him right there.  While James had agreed to allow his wife to do as Beckett bid her, and while Beckett was technically his employer, both men knew that if Beckett hit Stella again, James would hit Beckett.  And James could hit a lot harder.

There was a slight argument about the destination of the fleet; Stella insisted that south would be best, since the hurricane was looking to veer north.  Beckett pointed out that those were deeper, open waters, and they'd be vulnerable; better to go north, and shelter between Cuba and Haiti.  Stella then raised a brow and inquired what, exactly, would they be vulnerable to?  After all, the hurricane was the largest threat facing them at the moment, and wouldn't the best course of action be to avoid it at all costs?  That meant going south, into the Caribbean.  Beckett's glare could have frozen the ocean, but he did give the command to sail south.

Later, when the sails were full and the fleet underway, Stella caught his arm and pulled him aside.  "Where is the Heart?" she demanded quietly.

"Beckett has it," James replied confusedly.  "Why?"

"His hold over Davy Jones is not so secure as he would like," Stella murmured, voice hardly audible over the wind.  "You recall his mention of vulnerabilities?"  James nodded.  "We're sailing into deeper waters.  With the distraction of the hurricane, Jones might try and take the chance to get his heart back.  I would," she added, smiling thinly.

"The Kraken?"

"Yes.  A distraction, while he takes back the Heart."  Stella's lips twisted.  "That is the vulnerability of sailing south.  Going north is worse, though.  I could kill myself dealing with the wind north of Jamaica, and when I was dead it would blow you into shore and you'd founder on the rocks anyway."

James heaved a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose.  "This is going to be marvellous fun, isn't it?"

Stella chuckled darkly and stood on her toes to press a kiss to the tip of his chin.  "Look on the bright side, darling.  We might both die out here."

Rolling his eyes, James returned to his station. 

* * *

 

The winds grew worse as the light faded into night.  James and Stella retired to their cabin and tried to sleep. Tried. The energy of the hurricane was making Stella restless, and James was fretting so much over her that her restlessness made him restless as well.

She wagered it was very early in the morning when the hurricane's arms first reached out for their position.  She sat bolt upright in the bunk she was occupying and whispered, "It's here."

Her husband's sleepy voice came from the bunk above hers.  "Is it at the point where it starts to destroy the ship?"

"Not yet."

"Then go back to sleep."

She slept for a few more fitful hours, until the rocking of the ship and the roar of the wind—and the disquiet in her stomach—woke her.  James was already gone, and Stella smiled ruefully; she should've known he wouldn't be able to rest once the storm began, even with her aboard.  After the last one, his self-confidence was still a little shaky.

She got up and dressed in the dim light of a stormy dawn, feeling miserable.  Then she slipped silently out of the cabin and hurried up on deck.  She was awake long before Lord Beckett, and, thankfully, the only other people around were the sailors who had been on duty during the night.  The rain was beginning to fall in earnest, but it didn't impede her progress as she staggered and stumbled to the rail and puked, very genteelly, over the side of the ship.

"Seasick, Mrs. Norrington?" came the query from a sailor who appeared at the rail beside her, placing a steadying hand on her back.

"Seasickness, morning-sickness... either way, I feel horrible," Stella muttered, wiping the raindrops from her face.

"Better get back inside, Ma'am," the sailor advised.  A clap of thunder sounded overhead.  "Storm's getting worse."

Stella smiled thinly, and looked up into the clouds.  "I know."

She didn't go inside just yet.  She stood in the shelter of the sterncastle, and let the wind and rain lash her face and tear at her dress.  James found her there shortly thereafter.

"What are you doing?" he shouted over the wind.

"Listening," she called back.

"You're soaked to the bone—get inside!"  Once she was inside, James started fussing, trying to wring out her hair and dry her face with his sleeves.  "What on earth were you doing out there, so early in the morning?" he demanded.

"Throwing up," Stella replied honestly.

"Well, let's get you dry—"

"There's no point," she interrupted.  "The storm is getting worse.  I need to be out in it if I'm to do anything with it."

"Lord Beckett wants us in the stateroom for breakfast."

"Then I will go, and tell him so."

They found Lord Beckett by the globe.  He raised a brow when he noticed Stella dripping on the carpet.  "How fares the storm, Mrs. Norrington?  I assume from the state of your attire that you have already been outside to check."

"It grows worse, as I'm sure you've noticed," Stella replied calmly.  "By all rights, I should be out there right now."

"Then you had better go.  Keep the fleet safe," Beckett dismissed.

"Will you eat anything?" James asked her quietly, as she turned around to return to the deck.

"No.  My stomach couldn't hold it, not this early in the morning," Stella demurred.  She grinned weakly.  "The wonders of pregnancy."

"You wanted it," James reminded her, tapping a finger on the top of her pointed nose.

"You helped," she riposted, before dripping her way back on deck.

To her surprise, James went with her.  "I’m not letting you out there alone.  If something happens, I want to be out there to react to it," he explained.  "And, above all else, I don't want you going overboard."

To that purpose, he tied her to the ship.  Using a pair of silk scarves taken from Lord Beckett's stores, James lashed her arms to the rail of the sterncastle, just before the helm.   Stella managed an absent snicker, though the hurricane was already stealing her attention.

And then it swept her away.

She was with the wind, in the wind, on the wind—she was the wind.  She whirled and screamed and laughed and roared out over the ocean.  As the gale lashed the trees of Hispaniola, Stella was there.  As the wind tore at the sails of Beckett's armada, Stella was there.  She was the stabbing lightning and the pouring rain and the shrieking gusts.  She was the drive of the storm and the stillness of the eye.  The strength of the hurricane was her strength, and Stella was more powerful than she had ever been in all her life. 

If she wanted, Stella could have joined herself to the storm and sunk all the ships, destroyed that which Lord Beckett was trying so hard to build and drowned the man who'd dared to raise his hand to her.  But she didn't.  Couldn't.

A tiny thread, as thin as cobweb, kept her anchored in her body and linked her power to her conscious mind, reminding her that, though she was the storm, she was also a woman called Stella.  Only the child slumbering in her womb restrained her from letting everything go, and flying off to become one with the storm.

Had Lord Beckett taken her out into a hurricane at any other time, it would have been one of the last things he'd done.  The sheer power of the storm and Stella's affinity with it would have overwhelmed her, and there would have been no stopping her.  Not even her affection for James Norrington would have kept her from unleashing her fury on her enemy.

Speaking of James Norrington, there he was!  Stella-who-was-the-storm saw him climb the steps to the quarterdeck and approach Stella-who-wasn't-the-storm, and touch her hand, and brush away the hair that had plastered itself to her face.  Stella-who-was-the-storm gathered her friends and whirled down to swirl playfully around him, nearly blowing off his wig in the process (naturally, all the men had left their hats inside).

James smiled through the rain.  "Stop it, Stella!" he called.  "I need that!"

Laughing, she blew off elsewhere, to check on the other ships she was supposed to be minding.  Something familiar tickled her senses, and she was going to go look when a jangling chorus of _wrong_ erupted from the ocean.

She didn't even need to look to know what it was: the other wind saw, so she did too.  So that was the _Flying Dutchman_.  Stella-who-was-the-storm gusted around it to take a look.  It wasn't much to look at physically, but she could practically  see the enchantments around it.  Laughing gleefully, she scoured around the ship, letting her senses drink their fill.  The crew was not immune to her scrutiny; she blew several of them over in her haste to inspect them.  There was a man becoming one with a coral reef; another with the head of a shark.  Did that one have a head at all?  Oh yes, there it was—it was that of an eel, and he'd hidden it away to shield it from the driving wind.  And there... there was Davy Jones.  The master of this curious floating construct and all the weird amalgamations who inhabited it.

James was right... he did have a squid for a beard.

She swirled around him inquisitively, and was positively delighted when several beardy-tentacles curled around the brim of his hat to keep it on his cephalopodan skull.  Jones, however, was not delighted.  He glared at her fiercely, even though he couldn't see her, and snapped his crab-claw arm at the driving rain.

"Storm's getting stronger, cap'n!" yelled one of the beings—the one with the hammerhead crown.

"Douse canvas and keep her steady," Davy Jones shouted back.  His speech was oddly abrupt; he lengthened the sibilant fricatives and overemphasised the other consonant sounds.  It reminded Stella of the choppy seas after a storm has passed.

Then he raised his head to the sky and roared, "Let no joyful voice be heard!  Let no man look up at the sky with hope! And let this day be cursed by we who ready to wake... the Kraken!"

Stella-who-was-the-storm screamed, and spun back on the air to return to the _Endeavour_ , missing the sight of the Kraken-hammer.  She felt it, though—felt the deep thump against the ocean, and the summons that went with it.  Desperation and terror drove her on, and Stella-who-was-the-storm slammed back into Stella-who-wasn't with enough force to knock her physical body off her feet.

James was at her side in an instant.  "Are you all right?" he shouted over the wind.

Stella screamed at the top of her lungs.  She'd meant to warn him, tell him Davy Jones was here and that he'd summoned the Kraken, but apparently coherent speech hadn't yet made it back into her body.  She kept screaming and screaming, trying to warn him.

She hated being right about things like these.

"What is it?" James asked frantically.

Words finally formed on her lips.  "Kraken!  Kraken!  _Dutchman's_ here—get the Heart!" she shrieked.  All the colour washed from James' face.  Then the ship seemed to hit something—an impossible feat, since they were too far out to sea for that.  The Kraken was here. "Get it  now!"

James immediately ran for the Great Cabin below the quarterdeck, stopping only on the way to order a sailor to ring the bell.  Its clanging sent the whole crew into motion as they scurried around the deck, going for cutlasses and spears.  More sailors poured out from belowdecks.  Panic was heavy in the air.

Stella was terrified—what would happen to them?  If Beckett gave up the Heart, Jones would kill him, and then he'd probably kill James as well.   If Beckett didn't give up the Heart—and this situation was much more likely—the Kraken might do untold amounts of damage to the ship, many of the people on board might be killed, and they might all sink in the hurricane, which was far from over.

She wanted to scream with frustration.  The Kraken was ruining everything!  If only it was put out of commission!

Something occurred to her.

_No—no, it's foolhardy and dangerous,_ she scolded herself _._

_But it could be our only chance,_ she argued back _._

_You're not strong enough—_

_With the hurricane here?  Oh yes, I am!_

_Well, you won't be doing anything while tied to the rail!_

"Captain!  Captain Groves!" she called, using the roaring winds to bring her voice to his ears.  Groves looked up at her from his position on the poop deck.  "Untie me, please!"

Groves made his way up to the quarterdeck; his sea legs were much stronger than hers, and his steps were steady.  When he reached her, he used a boot-knife to cut through the scarves securing her wrists to the rail.  She was almost knocked off her feet when the bonds came free, but Groves grabbed her arm and steadied her.  "What's going on?" he demanded over the noise of the sailors.

"Kraken!" she replied simply.  Groves swore, which Stella politely ignored. "I must find my husband!  He has to bring the Heart—it's our only chance!"

Groves took her arm and helped her hurry down the stairs of the quarterdeck, then aided her dash towards the inside of the ship.  It was hard; the deck was still swaying precariously, the wind was still gusting robustly, the deck had been soaked with rain and the occasional wave spraying salt water, and her skirts had become sodden impediments around her legs.

James and Beckett met them at the door.  In Beckett's hand was the pulsating red silk bag, and Stella nearly sobbed with relief.  It was probably the only moment in her life when she was actually glad to lay eyes on the man.

"What's going on?" Beckett demanded the moment he saw them.

His answer came in the form of a tentacle as wide as his whole body, which slithered up on deck and plucked one of the sailors off his feet and dragged him, screaming, into the roiling ocean.

"Kraken," Stella replied succinctly.

Beckett's eyes went rather wide, and he frowned nervously.   "I didn't think Jones would dare to try something like this."

James and Captain Groves shared an exasperated look, before Groves ran off to take command of the defences.  "Well, he is!" James shouted.  "Do something!  Call him off!"

Beckett's skin was as pale as milk, and he swallowed heavily.  Stella sneered at him—she knew he was powerless.  He couldn't Call without a ritual, and there wasn't any time for that now.  She knew it, and she suspected that Davy Jones knew it too.

_He's planned all this out rather well_ , she thought fleetingly.

"Oh, give it to me!" she snapped, yanking the bag out of Beckett's hands.  Then she pressed it to her chest and shouted, "Davy Jones, hearken!  I summon thee!"  Turning to James, she yelled, "Open the spyglass!  The _Dutchman_ is floating off the port side."

"No need!" came a cold voice.  And Davy Jones materialised before the mast.  With him came a host of his nightmarish crewmembers, even as the Kraken's tentacles began to snake up the side of the ship.  The sound of cannons firing came to her ears, but sounded as though it was far away.  "I'm here for my heart, weevil," he spat at Beckett, who was still standing, frozen, beside James and Stella.

James removed his pistol in one smooth movement and pointed it at the bag in Stella's hands.  "Stop right there," he commanded curtly, "or I'll destroy it, and you along with it."

Davy Jones just laughed.  "Ye do that," he pointed out amusedly, "and who'll stop the Kraken from destroying yer ship?"  He glanced over his shoulder to where the sailors of the _Endeavour_ were trying futilely to beat the monster off.  Then he turned his electric blue eyes back to the trio in the shadow of the sterncastle.  "Give me back what's mine," he snarled, "and I'll let the rest o' ye go."

"Liar," Stella whispered.

There was no other choice—he'd backed them into a corner surely as anything.  Give back the Heart, and he'd kill her husband and scuttle the ship.  Keep the Heart, and he'd let the Kraken do as it willed, and the ship would sink anyway, and he'd have back his Heart.  There was no choice but to remove the Kraken from this standoff.  It had to be done.

She just hoped she remembered how.

So Stella pulled the Heart out of the bag, clasped it over her own heart, wrapped the power in the wind around her like a cloak, and warned her husband, "Whatever happens, don't let me go."

Then she locked eyes with Davy Jones. 

* * *

 

When his wife warned him not to let her go, James immediately grabbed her arm.  And not a moment too soon—her skin went very cold, and she suddenly seemed as inanimate as a puppet.  If he let her go, she would fall; since he was keeping her up, she stood.

Surprisingly, Davy Jones staggered at the exact same instant, before straightening up and bellowing curses aimed in Stella's direction.  A moment or two after that the arms of the Kraken, which had been picking sailors off the deck and winding around the ship, started acting erratically—flailing, twitching—before going abruptly still.

"What's happening?" Beckett asked shakily.  James spared a moment to glare at him—master schemer he might be, but it seemed Cutler Beckett was useless in a crisis.

Oddly enough, the answer came from Davy Jones. "Yer thrice-damned witch is possessin' my Kraken!" he bellowed.

James fought the urge to bury his face in his hands.  "Of course she is." 

* * *

 

When she was younger, and her mother kept her hidden away from the rough-and-tumble society of their new Tortugan home, Stella used to possess birds, and fly around the island in their minds.  Her mother had eventually discovered her pastime, and forbidden her from doing it again—it was too dangerous.  Stella could loose herself in the other mind, or exhaust herself through the effort until she didn't have the strength to return to her own body, or even die if something happened to the host while she was possessing it.

It was not a rare talent among the women of their lines (Grandmother Esme had been the best at it, and owned several cats she used to Borrow), but one which was not generally used.  It was too dangerous; so much could go wrong.  And if Stella hadn't been standing in the middle of a hurricane, with all that power at her fingertips, and with her husband next to her to guard her physical body while her mind was out on holiday, she never would have thought to try her hand at possessing something as massive as the Kraken.  Even though she was in her element, so to speak, there was still an absurd amount of danger involved in her endeavour.

However, she didn't have much of a choice.  Someone had to take down the Kraken, and she was the only one who could.

She kept Davy Jones' heart close; with that connection, she leapt into Jones' mind, finding his link to the Kraken and roaring through with all the power she could marshal, coming at last to the beast's consciousness.  There she spread like some kind of malevolent root system, pressing her will against its—her—instincts.

The Kraken was hungry.   That was the defining instinct that drove her on.  Currently, she was angry as well at the pain the men were inflicting on her.  And she was loyal—as much as she could be, with such basic instincts—to Davy Jones.

Stella used the power of the Heart to spread her will over the Kraken, commanding her to cease her assault, influencing her to calmness.  Because of the power of the Heart which made her seem familiar to the Kraken's mind and the wellspring of power available in the form of the hurricane, it wasn't long until Stella had control of the leviathan and ordered it to stillness.  She was able to keep her mind mostly apart from the beast, since the Kraken was seafaring and Stella herself was avian, but she felt everything the Kraken did. From the pain in her tentacles (did she have tentacles?) to the hunger gnawing in her belly (but James had fed her, not two hours ago) to the cool water all around her (but she didn't like the water), she felt it.  She felt the instinct to destroy and the promise to protect; she knew the sea and all its secrets the same way she knew the ways of the sky.  Her heart—hearts?—bent towards a being with tentacles like her, but equally—stronger?—towards a man with green eyes.

Was she a lady?  A storm?  A beast with a multitude of arms?  All of these things?  None?

Stella wasn't entirely sure anymore. 

* * *

 

An eerie hush descended on the ship.  The Kraken's tentacles stopped moving, and slithered back down into the water.  Even the wind ceased its shrieking howl, just... fading away before it struck the _Endeavour_.  James, who was still holding Stella steady, felt a strange energy passing through her body, and he wondered if she didn't have something to do with this unnatural quiet.

Davy Jones took a menacing step closer to the party of three: James, his insensate wife, and their equally insensate employer.  "Stop," James commanded, before Jones had even set his crab-like peg-leg back on the deck.  He pressed his pistol closer to the heart, wishing desperately for a sword.  "Don't move."

The squid-man just scoffed.  "Ye can't do ennathin'—not without killin' her," he pointed out astutely.

"Hardly."  The smooth voice inserted itself into the conversation like a well-placed knife through an enemy's ribs.  "At the very least, all he'll do is blow off her fingers.  And since he's her husband, I'm sure she'll forgive him... eventually." Apparently, now that all the urgent danger had passed, Lord Beckett had snapped himself out of whatever panic-driven paralysis had afflicted him, and was back to pulling all the strings of the people around him.

But considering the virulent glare Jones had turned on the Norringtons once he knew their relationship, James wished fervently that Beckett had stayed silent a bit longer.

"Really, Captain Jones," Beckett went on, strolling carefully forward to where James still held his wife erect.  "I had thought you understood your position.  Using your tools for such a purpose... I'm quite disappointed."  He removed a slim blade from an inner pocket of his jacket, and pointed it directly at the beating heart cradled against Stella's chest.  "Perhaps I overestimated both your rational powers... and your usefulness to me."

The look of loathing Jones gave Beckett could have peeled paint right off the hull.  "Then do it, and be done with it," he spat.

"And loose both my treasures?" Beckett inquired rhetorically.  "No, you shan't be escaping so easily, Jones.  Stella?  Escort Captain Jones back to his ship," he commanded, speaking over his shoulder to the inert Mrs. Norrington.

He was, of course, violently surprised when a tendril of Stella's loose black hair shot out like a bolt of lightning and curled around his neck.

Beckett started choking and scrabbling around his neck, but Stella's hair was wet and smooth like... well, like a Kraken tentacle, and he found nothing to dig his fingers into.  James started violently and nearly dropped his wife—the rest of her hair had started writhing and swaying a bit like Davy Jones' beard, and her skin had taken on a smooth, almost slimy texture—but for his recollection not to drop her under any means.  And Davy Jones started laughing.

"What fortuitous circumstance be this!" he crowed. "She may have possessed the Kraken, but the Kraken's got her hooks in too!  Well done!  Now, pet," he added, voice turning sinister, "kill him."

"No!" James shouted, as Stella's... hair... tightened around Beckett's neck, forcing the man to drop to his knees.  "Don't, Stella.  We still need him."  As much as it galled, this was true.   Beckett was the lynchpin around which the entire enterprise turned; without him, it would fall to pieces, and the middle of a hurricane with a Kraken underfoot was not the moment for such an upheaval.

"He hurt me," came the reply, torn from Stella's throat with a strange guttural flatness.

"Aye," Davy Jones agreed emphatically, "so take your vengeance!"

"Keep your guns on them, men!"  That was Groves, bringing another player into the standoff.

"You can't do this now, Stella," James hissed.  "They'll kill you if you kill him!"

"Finish the job!" Davy Jones bellowed.  "Kill him, and return my property!  The fleet's yours to destroy when he's dead!"

"Stand down, Captain Jones!" came the command from the soldiers.  "Release Lord Beckett and Mrs. Norrington, and return to your ship!"

"Kill him!  Finish—!"

"Stand down—!"

"Let go—!"

It was a step away from a total mêlée, with everyone shouting, and the wind beginning to scream, and the ship creaking, and the waves crashing against the hull.

And in the noise, James leaned down, brushed the squirming tentacles of his wife's hair away from her neck, and whispered gently against her skin, like a stone dropping into the water, "Starling, come back."

A moment, stretched as tight as corset stays, in which everything hung in the balance.

Then a soft sigh.  Stella sagged into James' arms, and her hair uncoiled from Lord Beckett's throat.  James breathed a sigh of relief himself, and slipped an arm around Stella's slightly swollen belly, spooning her drenched body against his.  Lord Beckett himself collapsed onto the deck, gasping for air.  And Davy Jones turned a look so hateful onto the Norringtons that James could feel it on his skin, and he unconsciously held Stella closer.

Stella used him as leverage and pushed herself as far upright as her strength would allow.  "Go," she commanded hoarsely, glaring tiredly at Davy Jones.  "Take your... creatures... and go.  Leave us, or I'll destroy your ship and you along with it."

"Witch," Jones spat at her, glowering hatefully.

"Monster," she retorted.  "Begone!"

"Not quite," Beckett corrected, having collected himself and stood.  He cleared his throat a few times, but the poisoned honey of his voice was absent, and his tones nearly as harsh as Stella's currently were.  It was curious form of justice.  "It seems I was unwise to allow your pet to continue on under your control..."

"Now is not the time for a soliloquy, Lord Beckett," James ground out.  Stella's hair was growing restless, writhing against his chest in a truly disquieting sensation, her breath was coming quicker, and her body was tense.  "I don't know how much longer she can hold it."

Beckett's cold blue eyes studied her dispassionately for a moment.  "Perhaps you're right, Admiral."  He turned to Davy Jones.  "Kill it."

"What?" Jones demanded, lowly.

"I believe I was quite clear," Beckett replied calmly.  "You cannot be trusted with the Kraken.  Kill it." 

* * *

 

However much time had passed, or was passing, Stella wasn't sure.  Her entire world had narrowed to the Kraken, and to herself.  Even the storm beyond had retreated to the fringes of her consciousness as she tried so hard to continue exerting her control over the Kraken.

She was tired... so tired.  Stretched so thin, pulled so tight, about to snap like a bowstring.    She had never possessed something so large for so long, and she worried that it was starting to take a toll on her.  She knew she'd have to let go soon, or she'd kill herself through the effort, but what would happen when she did?

A tickle in her mind—or was it the Kraken's mind?—called her away from the _Endeavour_.  Probably the Kraken's mind, then.  She glided through the choppy waters toward the _Dutchman_ , and—

Pain tore through her—both of her.  She screamed.

Stella gathered herself and pulled away.  Tried, rather—the Kraken, afraid and wounded, wouldn't let her leave, and clung to her like a favoured toy, as though she had some power to drive the hurt away.  She didn't understand... she had come as Davy Jones had asked her—why was he hurting her?

Another explosion of pain.  Another terrified wail.  Was she screaming?  Was the Kraken?  Both?

She pulled and pulled on her mind, trying desperately to return to her own body.  The Kraken's pain was hers, and if she was dying and Stella couldn't separate her consciousness, Stella would die too.

Another wave of pain, more intense.  Pain was her world now; every moment was physical and psychic agony, and she could feel death approaching at a rapid clip.  Neither Stella nor the Kraken were unfamiliar with death, having both delivered it and fought it, and they knew.

The Kraken wouldn't let her go.  She clung to life tenaciously, and since Stella was alive she clung to the witch as well.  And Stella didn't have enough strength to tear herself away by force.

_Perhaps this was a bad idea_, she thought woozily.

One final shot, and pain gave way to a blessed darkness. 

* * *

 

The storm rallied itself again, now that Stella wasn't around to soothe it or take its power—whatever it was she'd been doing.  Davy Jones and his crew had walked into the woodwork of the _Endeavour_ and thus vanished back to the _Dutchman_.  James was glad to see them go; perhaps then his wife would return to normal, and he could send her inside.

A cannon shot sounded.  A mere moment later, Stella went stiff in his arms, and screamed.

"What's happening?" Beckett inquired politely, watching as Stella began to shake.

James picked her up and brought her inside, away from the rain, and lowered her gently to the floor, kneeling beside her.  Her hair was still twisting and writhing of its own volition, her skin was still wet and clammy and strangely serpentine, and her eyes were wide and staring off at nothing.  Another cannon shot sounded, scarcely heard over the roaring wind, and Stella's blue-tinged lips opened in another bloodcurdling scream.

"God's blood, he's killing her," James realised in horror.  "Stella!  Stella, you have to get away from the Kraken!"  He wrestled the Heart of Davy Jones away from her rictus-like grip and thrust it back at Beckett.  "Stella, come back!"

"I don't think she can," Beckett commented over his shoulder, tucking the Heart back into its bag.

The cannons were firing with more regularity, and Stella kept screaming and scrabbling at the deck as her body twisted with pain.  Tears were beginning to leak out of her unseeing black eyes, and her pale face was warped with her agony.  James grasped her hands, knowing she'd harm herself if she kept flailing, and trying to offer what comfort her could... he didn't even know if she could feel it.  There was nothing he could do for her.

Then, one final cannon shot.  Thunder rolled over the ocean.   Stella took a deep, sobbing gasp... and went limp.  Her eyes rolled up into her head, and her hair went still as her face smoothed out into an expressionless mask.

James' hands clenched convulsively around Stella's as all his breath whooshed out of his body.  It felt like he'd just been punched in the gut. 

"No," he whispered, gathering her fragile body into his arms.  She was limp and cold, but had never looked so beautiful to him than at that moment, when loosing her was a very real possibility.  _What will I do without her?_

Then came the unwelcome query from Lord Beckett.

"Is she dead?" 

* * *

 

Stella floated on the tide, with the wind.  Her tears became one with the water, and she wept quietly as she went along.

The Kraken was dead.  Stella had been with her in her last death throes, as she hadn't been with Jack Osborn, offering comfort to the last.  She had to stay anyway—Stella couldn't escape from the mire of the Kraken's mind until she was dead.

Was she dead too?

_Mama?  Papa?_   she called.  _Jack?  Mama?  Are you there—here?_

She didn't know how long she blew along with the sea and the sky.  Time had no meaning.  Eventually, she found herself alongside a ship—a tiny, rather decrepit ship, and wafted up through the hull.  There were sailors—dirty, unkempt sailors.  _Pirates_.

In the Great Cabin, under the sterncastle, was an older man in a very large hat peering at a series of charts.  Stella recognised him.  "Damn!" she swore.  "I am dead."

The man—captain, rather, since he couldn't be anything else in such a pretentious hat—turned around, startled.  "What the blazes...?"

"I'm dead, you fool.  And I must be in hell, too—there's no other reason for you to be here as well, Hector Barbossa."

"This isn't hell, ye daft hyssop," Barbossa snorted, rolling his eyes.

"But you're dead."

"I'm not."

"Of course you are.  Jack Sparrow shot you."

A stained grin.  "Death didn't take."

At this point, Barbossa had apparently decided that Stella wasn't hostile, and had approached where she stood... floated... hovered.  He peered at her curiously for a moment.  Then he stuck his hand through her chest.

Stella shrieked indignantly, and went to slap him roundly across the face.  Her hand went right through him.

This seemed to please Barbossa.  "Aye, ye be a ghost," he concluded.

"I see death hasn't made you any less of an unmitigated ass," Stella remarked sourly.

A smoky chuckle interrupted what probably would have turned into a fairly inventive round of insults, and Stella didn't even need to look to know who it would be.  A smile spread across her face.  "Tia!"

" _Bonjou, ma pitit_ ," Tia greeted warmly, her voice providing the only heat Stella felt at the time, as sultry as a humid afternoon just before a rainstorm.

Stella wafted over, but realised that, just as she couldn't hit Barbossa, she couldn't embrace Tia, either.  "I miss you," she whispered.  Tia gave her an inky smile and placed the palm of her hand on Stella's ghostly cheek; Stella felt an echo of the sensation.  "Are we dead?" she asked.

" _Non, cherie_ ," Tia assured her.  "You 'ave but come to see us 'ere, on our travels."

"So I'm not dead?"  Tia shook her head.  Stella glared poisonously at Barbossa, who smiled mockingly at her.  "He ought to be."

"Stella..." Tia warned.

"Well, it's a valid point," Stella snapped.  "My mother—"

"Was at peace," Tia interrupted.

She scowled.  "It's still not fair," she muttered.  Then, collecting herself again, she sneered at Barbossa.  "Since I'm not dead, can I curse him?" she inquired, pointing at the captain, whose eyes went wide.

Apparently deciding that there was no shame in hiding, Barbossa skittered nervously behind Tia, who laughed her rich rum-like laughter.  "Better no' waste your strength," she advised.  "You still needin' to get beck t'you body."  She laid a hand on Stella's abdomen.  "Da _pitit_ be all dat keep you livin', and dat's a heavy burden."

"My baby," Stella whispered, putting insubstantial hands on her belly.

"Her be strong one day," Tia promised.  "But only if her gets de chance to be born."

Before Stella could respond to that—or, most importantly, ask if Tia had any pointers on how to get back—the cabin doors burst open, and two sailors strode in.  She recognised both of them.

"Mr. Turner!  I'm surprised to see you here... or perhaps not," she greeted smoothly.  Gone was the vulnerable soon-to-be-mother, the uncertain ghost; in her place was Black Stella the witch.

Will did a double-take, staring dumbfounded at the apparition standing before Tia Dalma.  "Miss Bell?" he eventually said.

"Actually, it's Mrs. Norrington now," she corrected, taking perverse pleasure in the gasp this information wrung from Will's companion.  "I got married."

"To James Norrington?" Elizabeth Swann interrupted incredulously.

"Why, yes!  Jealous?" Stella queried.  And she smiled poisonously.

So, this was Elizabeth Swann in the flesh.  It was the first time Stella had actually laid eyes on her for an extended period of time.  She was beautiful—no doubt about that—though her hair was more golden than James apparently remembered, and there was something hard in her jaw and cold in her eyes.

Perhaps, if there hadn't been such history between them (though Elizabeth was rather unaware of this), Stella might have been disposed to like Miss Swann.  She was passionate, clever, and steadfast; she was also scheming, secretive, and willing to do anything and everything to achieve her goals.

Stella had once commented about seeing through a glass darkly; though she had been referring to Davy Jones and her husband, the same applied to Stella and Elizabeth.  The two women had many similar traits, though Stella was icy where Elizabeth was ardent.  Had James been asked, he would've rolled his eyes and made a comment about familiarity breeding contempt.  Had Stella been asked, she would have raised a brow and remarked that Elizabeth was far below her contempt.

Stella never admitted the real reason, even to herself.

"Yes, I married James Norrington, after his return to Port Royal," she replied more thoroughly.

"Traitor," Elizabeth breathed.

"To you?  You're a criminal—a pirate.  The best you can hope for is the hangman's noose.  In the eyes of the majority of the world, you're the traitor," Stella sneered.

"It's possible to be a good person and a pirate," Elizabeth spat back.

"Of course.  But somehow, you don't quite manage to carry it off," Stella said with mock-sympathy.

"How dare you—" Elizabeth gasped.

"How's your father?" Stella inquired swiftly, interrupting whatever else Elizabeth might have said.  "Hmm?  I daresay you don't know, do you?  You just left him behind when you fled Beckett to seek out your fiancé.  Fiancé... have you married him yet?"  Elizabeth's flush was all the answer she needed.  "I didn't think so.  I wonder, then, what's your father suffering for?"

"My father's suffering?" Elizabeth repeated, looking struck.

"He's under Beckett's thumb—of course he's suffering," Stella snapped.  "And all for his precious daughter."

Elizabeth's face had paled noticeably, but Stella wasn't done yet.  She glanced over at Will, where he hovered protectively around his fiancée, and plucked knowledge from him which she would use to hurt the woman he loved.  "His father is in his mind constantly; the elder Turner's suffering is his.  You, however, Miss Swann... you are not exactly a stunning example of filial devotion.  Weatherby hasn't stopping thinking about you since the moment you left.  I wonder..." her voice dropped lower, "how much mind do you pay to him?"

"You have no idea what I feel for my father," Elizabeth growled, glaring at the ghostly Stella.

"I know you good as forgot him the moment you left Port Royal," she returned sweetly.  "I suppose you hated your station so much throughout your life that you were eager to shed everything about it the moment you could—including your loving father, who'd never been anything but supportive of you.  You're all he has in the world, and he's sold himself to save you.  Yet you've all but forgotten him to gallivant around with pirates.  Such an ungrateful, selfish girl.  Or perhaps, just a..." She smiled—a slow, lazy grin that promised pain at the end and—though she didn't know it—made her look a bit like Jack Sparrow as she accused Elizabeth: "Pirate."

Elizabeth's face went white as milk as her dark eyes filled with tears, and she whirled around and nearly ran from the cabin.  Will shot Stella a look of loathing and followed her.

Stella smirked.  "James is right," she remarked amusedly, "I'm a bad person.  I enjoyed that far too much."

"Ye always were a viper-tongued bitch," Barbossa remarked idly.

Stella glared at him.  "Hector, I will hurt you."  Barbossa threw up his hands in surrender and subtly moved a bit behind Tia Dalma.

"Betteh save you power, Stella," Tia advised.  "Beckett's not done wit you yet."

She suddenly felt tired.  "Of course he's not."

"What's wrong with your hair?" Barbossa demanded.

Stella lifted a hand, before remembering that she couldn't feel anything.  "What is wrong with my hair?"

"It's movin'."

"Oh... that.  There was a... Kraken," Stella said haltingly, realising that an explanation would be almost impossible—and that she didn't trust Barbossa that much anyway.

She'd gobsmacked him, at any rate; he stared at her blankly for a long moment, before just shaking his grizzled head and plopping back down at his table, apparently deciding to pretend that she wasn't there.

Tia, however, sashayed over, and ran a hand over Stella's aura.  Her dark eyes widened.  "What did you do?" she breathed.

"What I had to," Stella replied stiffly.  "I didn't want to die, Tia."

"You nearly die anyway," she pointed out.

"It was a calculated risk."

"Veerry risky."

"I knew what I was doing."

"Did you?  Did you really?" Tia pressed.  "De beast, it die when you still wit it.  And now it survive in you."  She ran a graceful hand over Stella's hair—or at least, where Stella's hair would be if it wasn't insubstantial.

"What?!" Stella squeaked.  "Is it permanent?"

"If you live," Tia replied ominously.

Stella took that to be Tia-speak for 'get back to your body soon, or you won't get back there at all'.  But she didn't want to leave—she'd missed Tia, missed talking to her and taking counsel from her.  She'd felt safer when she knew that she could run to Tia on the Pantano if things went truly wrong.  But now things were truly wrong, and Tia was on this tiny boat in the middle of the ocean.  "I wish... it all got so complicated," she sighed helplessly.

Tia smiled compassionately.  "You stronger dan you t'ink, _bijou_.  For what it wort', t'ough, you 'ave my favour."  And she leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss on Stella's ghostly forehead.  Stella actually felt it—the warmth of Tia's lips and a strange tingling sensation.

She stared at Tia as though she'd never seen her before, realising that there was much more to her friend than she had previously.  The voodoo enchantress, correctly interpreting her expression, just smiled mysteriously.  "You go show dat liddle man what we are," she whispered.

Stella laughed—the full-bodied, caw-like cackle that only Tia and James had ever been able to coax out of her.  Then she closed her eyes and put her hands on her belly.  Tia's hands went over hers—again with the almost-feeling sensation—and she murmured, "I be wit you when you need me.  Now go."

Stella went.

* * *

 

_Is she dead?_

James didn't answer—couldn't answer.  An answer would make things real.  But if he said nothing, he could still hold his wife in his arms and make the rest of the world would stay still for a little bit longer.

What would he do without her?

Beckett wasn't taking kindly to being ignored.  "Admiral," he insisted, "is she dead?"

"I don't know," James ground out through clenched teeth.

"Then check."

He didn't want to, and held Stella's body tighter.

Then, suddenly, her skin got warmer.  She stirred in his grip, and muttered something indistinct.

Something unbearably tight in his chest went slack, and he felt as though he could float away on the relief thrumming through his veins.  "She's not dead," he breathed.   Then, louder and more defiant, "She's not dead."

"Thank heavens," Beckett remarked, without any real feeling.  He bent over to peer at the still limp form of his admiral's wife.  "Mrs. Norrington, are you sensible?"

"Leave her alone," James snapped.  "She's exhausted."

"I need to know about the storm, for all our sakes," Beckett replied coolly.  "Mrs. Norrington.  Mrs. Norrington, awake!"

Stella stirred in James' arms again, mumbling faintly.  Her hair was going all strange again; James could feel it moving against his arms.  He rested his hand on her forehead and gently brushed his thumb across her wet skin.  Her eyelashes fluttered.  "Starling. Lord Beckett wants to speak with you."

"Lord Beckett," Stella muttered, her speech slurred, "can go to the devil."  At least, that was what James estimated she said.  Between the rain lashing the doors, the muted roar of the wind from outside, the creak of the hull, the shouting of the men outside, and Stella's own incoherence, her words were barely comprehensible.

"Mrs. Norrington," Lord Beckett repeated.  "I must know about the storm."

Stella's black eyes fluttered open, and she shot a dirty look at Beckett.  However, it was much less fearsome and powerful than her usual glares, given the bleariness of her eyes and the fact that she was teetering on the edge of unconsciousness.  "The storm will do as it wills.  I have no more strength to affect it," she informed him indistinctly.  "Besides," she added in a murmur, "it's almost over anyway."

"How close to almost over?" Beckett insisted.

"Give it a few hours after sunset," Stella replied softly, before curling in towards her husband and making clear that the conversation was over.

"I'm putting her to bed," James announced, lifting her up.  "Sunset will be in an hour or so—not that we'll see it—and there's nothing more she can do for you."  He paused a moment, to give Lord Beckett a very stern look.  "Everything you asked, she has done," he said lowly.  "Now let her have some peace.  I do not want her to see you until tomorrow."  And he turned to go.

Beckett's voice reached his ears.  "Be sure to tell her she did quite well."

Stella was shivering and hovering between waking and sleeping when James got a midshipman to open the door.  They were both soaked to the bone, and he immediately set Stella down on the table until he could get her into a dry nightgown and into bed.

However, he was stymied by Stella's dress, which was complicated and wet and the laces knotted... he'd never had to deal with ladies attire before.  "I apologise in advance for the damage I'm going to do to your dress," James said to his wife's body.  And then he took his boot-knife and sliced through the laces, nearly tore off the sleeves in an effort to get her arms free, and finally managed to get her only in her shift.  He dropped the sodden mass of cloth of the floor.

When she was finally unclothed, James briskly but gently towelled her off.  Her fingernails and lips were blue from the cold, and gooseflesh was popping up all over her body.  But he eventually manoeuvred her into her nightgown and tucked her into her bunk, piling all the blankets at hand onto her body.

After a few minutes, she stopped shivering, and slipped quietly into sleep.  James knew he should return to deck, but Groves had everything well in hand and he was still reeling from having nearly lost her.  So he moved a chair to the side of the bunk and seated himself.

Her hair was still... well, still acting a bit like Davy Jones' beard.  Perhaps this was just an after-effect of whatever she'd done to the Kraken.  James reached out and tentatively ran his fingers through her hair; it still felt like hair, still parted along his touch.  But it also gathered itself into larger locks, and twined gently around his fingers, slithering up to wrap softly about his wrist.  It felt like hair, but didn't act like it, and was a most disconcerting sensation.

James stayed with her for a quarter of an hour, until duty niggled and reminded him of his responsibilities.  Stella still slept deeply and peacefully, and her skin was warm when he brushed his fingers against her cheek—and a tendril of her dark hair came and curled itself lazily around his hand.  He rubbed the moving strand between his fingers; it wasn't solid, like a tentacle, but separated into all its varying strands.

"I wonder what you'll make of it when you wake up," James commented quietly.

But she didn't wake for two days.

* * *

The hurricane did indeed peter out after sunset.  The wind still blew, but with less ferocity.  The rain fell, but more gently.  Grey sunlight filtered through the clouds with the advent of the next dawn.

James met the day on the sterncastle, standing at the rail at the front of the helm where Stella had been lashed the day before.  His wife was still sleeping; a slight pity, since she could've given them an estimate of their position.  The hurricane had blown them God knows where, and there had been no stars the night before by which to chart their position.  North was the common estimate of Jamaica in relation to themselves, but otherwise no one knew where they were.

Theodore found him at the rail about mid-morning.  "Admiral," he greeted.

"Good morning, Captain," James replied, sparing Theodore a wan smile.

"I daresay the fleet survived the blow quite well," Theodore commented uncomfortably, shifting from foot to foot.

"Quite well indeed," James agreed mildly.  There was obviously something on his subordinate's mind.

"Er... how's your wife?" Theodore inquired, after clearing his throat.

James frowned.  "She's sleeping."

Theodore coughed.  "Right.  Right.  I... hope she's... well."

He certainly wasn't making any headway on whatever it was he wanted to discuss.  "Walk with me, Captain?" James suggested evenly.  They strolled in silence along the decks, stopping at the bow and looking off into the distance.  "Have you any idea where we are?"

"Off the coast of Mexico, I think, was the last guess."

"Mexico has a lot of coast," James noted.

"I never said it was a good guess," Theodore winced.  Then he finally seemed to pluck up enough courage to breach the subject he'd wanted to from the start.  "James, what in God's name is wrong with your wife?"

"At this exact moment in time?" James replied coolly, feeling the insult on Stella's behalf.  "She's sick and exhausted."

"That's... that's not what I meant," Theodore said haltingly.  He quailed slightly under James' icy glare, but rallied admirably.  "I like her, James—you know that.  I think she's charming, clever, and a good match for you.  But... well, she makes the men nervous.  They... they say she's a witch."

"Of course they do," James sighed tightly.  He pinched the bridge of his nose.  "Bearing in mind how useful Lord Beckett considers her, you think he'd be a little better at protecting her—or allowing me to do so."

"What?"  James just gave him a withering look.  Theodore understood immediately, and drew himself up indignantly.  "James, you can't think—?"

"I don't know what to think anymore."

There was a long, weighted pause, full of unsaid words.  Then:

"Do you remember that time, when you were still captain of _The_ _Interceptor_ , and we chased that pirate ship—what was it called?—all the way to the coast of Florida?" Theodore began.

" _The Sea Lion_ ," James replied, looking off to the horizon.  "Yes, I remember."

"I was shot.  I thought I was going to die, until you found me.  You dragged me to the surgeon by my coat."

"And you left a trail of blood all the way across the deck... it took ages to swab off."  James looked down, and to his clenched fists.

"You took a ball yourself."

"I didn't notice."

"I know.  And all the men noticed you not noticing," Theodore grinned.  "I remembering thinking you were the best officer I'd ever seen."

James smiled as well, but it was a sad smile. "That was a simpler time."

"Before Beckett came, and decided he knew more about running a navy than we did," Theodore muttered.  "James, I still think you're one of the best officers I've ever seen."  At his superior's bark of disbelieving laughter, Groves insisted, "I do.  I've never stopped thinking it.  You fought beside us in the thick of battle.  You never asked us to do anything that you wouldn't do yourself.  You care about the men—too much, sometimes."  What went unspoken was the comparison to Beckett, who commanded the navy with no prior experience and sat all the time in his stateroom.  "Were I to choose, I would choose you," Theodore affirmed quietly.

"You're a good man, Theodore.  A good man, a good officer, and a good friend," James said, looking down at his hands.  "I desperately need someone to trust."

"I won't betray your confidence.  Not to that," Theodore promised scathingly.  "I don't like him."

"I've yet to find someone who does," James muttered.  "Stella hates him."

"What's wrong with her, James?" Theodore asked.

"I don't know yet.  I'd have to ask her, but she's still asleep," James replied honestly.  "She's not a witch, Theodore, or possessed, whatever you've heard about her."

"Then how... what...?"

"She's got a gift," he said simply.  "She has an affinity with the wind and the skies, and a mind more powerful than a steel trap.  And Beckett wants to use them."

"Last night..."

"Last night she fought with a Kraken and won," James interrupted.  "For us.  To save our lives she nearly killed herself.  Once again, she nearly killed herself.  Have you noticed the suspicious mildness of the hurricanes this season?  Stella's doing.  Not that she gets any thanks for it!" he added, building up a head of steam. "Nor does Beckett pay any heed to her health, or her delicate condition, or my own preferences regarding my own wife's doings—!  No, he simply demands more, more, more from her! He counteracts my authority over this fleet, over my officers, and even over my own family!"

"I'd wondered why you brought her along," Theodore admitted.

"I didn't want to!" James exploded.  "I wanted her safe at home—she wanted herself safe at home!  I wanted her to sit around, eat bonbons, and do whatever it is pregnant women do.  I didn't want her out on the open ocean weathering hurricanes and controlling massive sea monsters!  But we have our orders," he spat bitterly.

"Why... I mean, I know the man is powerful, but how can he think to command your own wife?" Theodore asked incredulously.

"Because if she doesn't do as he says, he'll send me off to be killed.  If I don't do as he says, he'll hang her," James explained dully.  "It's quite ingenious, really, using us against each other.  And this position is, of course, all my fault... I begin to think I should have just let Jack Sparrow have the blasted Heart."  He sighed heavily.  "I wanted Stella to protect me from this kind of position.  I didn't think I'd be throwing her right into the line of fire.  I daresay Beckett treasures her talents far more than he does mine."

"I thought he hated her," Theodore said confusedly.

"He does.  He can treasure and hate her at the same time."

"Then... then those bruises..."  Theodore inquired tentatively, gesturing to his neck.

"She acquired those some time between entering the cells at Fort Charles and leaving them," James explained tightly.  "She was in a cell alone, and left it only to have a private discussion with Lord Beckett.  I'll let you draw your own conclusions as to the acquisition of her newest 'necklace'."

Theodore looked horrified.  "He wouldn't!"

"He did," James corrected grimly.  "And the worst part is that I can't even thrash him for it."

"Good God," Theodore breathed, shaking his head.  "I'd never thought... Lord Beckett!  Although I suppose that makes more sense than the other alternative."  James quirked a quizzical brow, and Theodore flushed slightly.  "Well, it is legal for a man to beat his wife," he muttered uncomfortably.

"I'd never—!" James protested indignantly.

"I know," Theodore interrupted.  "You love her—any fool can see it."

James grinned crookedly.  "Want to know a secret, Theo?" he asked.  Without waiting to hear the answer, he went on: "I don't love her.  Not like I loved Elizabeth Swann.  And she doesn't love me, either.  We're good friends, Stella and I, but we only married so I could bring her to Jamaica and so she could protect me from Beckett."

Theodore digested this declaration.  "Oh," was all he said.  "I take it things didn't go according to plan."

"Hardly," James sighed.  "I'd forgotten what a commodity Stella is to greedy sailors.  I didn't think that Beckett would want to use her.  I definitely didn't think they'd hate each other the way they do.  And I didn't think Beckett had as much power over us as he does."  He sighed again.  "Master tactician, I am not."

"That's not true," Theodore protested loyally.

"Oh, I can create naval strategy, win battles, outmanoeuvre pirates... that sort of thing," James allowed, looking pensively off at the horizon.  "But I can't plan for what people will and won't do in certain circumstances—that's why I needed Stella," he added wryly.  "She's very good at that.  But she can't protect me—protect us—from the results of my own folly."

"I have to give it to you, James," Theodore remarked after a long moment of silence.  "When you cock up, you do it on a grand scale."

James shot Theodore a flat glare.  "Thank you, Theodore."

Theodore grinned, before sobering.  "So, is she all right?"

"I don't know," James admitted.  "I don't know what kind of effort she has to expend to fulfil the orders of the company—only that every time Beckett demands something of her, it saps a little more of the strength she cannot afford to loose."  He clenched his fists again.  "God's blood, Theodore, he's killing my wife."

"The men are terrified of him," Theodore remarked.  "They think he trafficks with demons."

"He trafficks with Davy Jones—that's close enough," James muttered.

"No one likes him."

"Stella says he pays too little attention to the little people.  He gives no effort to making himself liked, and wields power with all the subtlety of a hammer," James noted.

"That's true enough."

The two men shared a long glance.  The question of _'for_ _how long_?' hung in the air between them.

It was true, what Theodore Groves noted.  No one liked Beckett; even those who liked him personally didn't like his behaviour.  They—James, Theodore, and all the other men in command of the armada's ships—were officers, trained from an early age to hold command of ships on the sea.  They worked hard for their power, put their lives on the line for it.  They did not take kindly to a civilian, no matter how powerful, coming aboard and telling them how to do their own jobs, and they liked even less that he was ignoring the chain of command. 

James Norrington had been a respected figure, even after his disgrace.  His promotion to Admiral had given a burst of confidence to the men—Old Iron Guts was back, and they'd go crush the pirates just like they used to.  As Admiral, he ought to have been in command.  Lord Beckett should have stayed on land, in his offices, and sent the orders to the Admiral, who'd execute them as he saw fit.

"He won't let us go," James announced quietly, after a long moment of silence.  "We're too tangled in the net to get ourselves out now."

"Then you'll have to cut yourselves free, somehow."

"Will you help us, Theodore?"

"In every way I can."  He clapped James on the shoulder.  "Send my compliments to Mrs. Norrington, when she awakes."

"I will."

Then Theodore grinned, breaking the solemnity of the moment and the serious air as he changed to subject to something much more innocuous.  "So, you're going to be a father?  Well done, James!  Well done!" he congratulated jubilantly, as the two officers meandered off the forecastle and back towards the helm.  "Perhaps you'll name the child after me?"

James snorted amusedly.  "It'd have to be something like 'Theodora', since Stella's certain it's a girl.  Would you want to inflict a name like that on any child of mine?"

"I'll have you know Theodore is a very noble name, Admiral Norrington..."

Though it was no longer spoken of, a seed of a conspiracy had been planted.  When and where and how it would flower was unknown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Woot woot! And there's chapter 24! Blimey, this thing's getting big!_
> 
> _Now I start setting the stage for what I think AWE should have been. A lot of my reviewers (and myself included) think that a lot more could have been made of the armada thing, and Norrington's place in it. So, I'm going to have a go. Wish me luck—I’m better with character studies, and not politics, and there will be a lot of politicking._


	26. Stella Ensem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stella gets a new hairstyle and James gets a new (old) sword.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This one was curiously hard to write... after all the action of the previous two chapters, it was weird to slide back into domesticity. Thankfully, the lull won't last too long. It lasted rather longer than I'd thought; this bit was once considerably longer, and then I chopped it apart and got two chapters out of it. Whee._
> 
> _I'm taking some liberties with the scene in which Norrington gets his sword back... there's no reason for it to take place on a ship, and no possible way Mercer could be there at the same time. So I chopped that scene in half and set it on land. It makes more sense. Look for the rest of that scene somewhere else._

It turned out the hurricane had blown them nearly into central America, and it took Beckett's armada nearly a week to collect itself and sail back to Jamaica.  Lord Beckett was most displeased by the moderate pace, but Admiral Norrington made it quite clear that the ships had to rely on nature—and only nature—to get them back to Port Royal.  It was, he explained to the aristocrat, a matter of short-term gain versus long-term benefit.

If Beckett wanted them back in Jamaica now, then he could force Mrs. Norrington to make the wind blow them there.  Such an effort would surely kill her, which would negate any further assistance she could offer.  Furthermore, the Admiral had said with a thin, humourless smile on his lips, the fleet would also loose its admiral, since, if Mrs. Norrington died because of one of Beckett's orders, Admiral Norrington would do something to Lord Beckett which would, legally, require the government to hang him afterwards.  Hence, Norrington finished dryly, the gain would be very, very short term.

Or, the Admiral had gone on pleasantly, Lord Beckett could do as the commanding officer of the fleet and the husband of the "asset" in question advised, which was sail back without Mrs. Norrington's supernatural assistance, as countless ships had done for countless generations, and permit the lady to get her strength back.  Within a fortnight or so, she'd be feeling better, and would be able to provide her customary services.  Lord Beckett would then be able to retain both his influence over the sky, the admiral of his fleet, and his good health.

Lord Beckett, perhaps sensing that he had pushed Admiral Norrington as far as that gentleman was going to go without snapping, conceded.  He kept to his stateroom, his maps, and his papers, and left the Norringtons entirely alone.

Stella Norrington, thus left to her own devices, spent the majority of the voyage back to Jamaica sleeping.

_The Endeavour_ anchored in Port Royal in the late afternoon, about eight days after it had first set sail. Admiral Norrington was down in his cabin with his wife.  "How are we going to do this?" he inquired.

Stella bit her lower lip thoughtfully.  "As much as I wish Port Royal could take an unvarnished look at my current state and what Lord Beckett has done to my health, I'm afraid the state of my hair may detract from the impression and raise a series of questions that I am disinclined to answer."

In unison, James and Stella glanced at her black hair, which was hanging loose down her back and squirming around quietly.  Her hair wasn't as active as Davy Jones' beard, but it was plain to see that her hair was moving of its own volition, in ways that hair did not generally move.  Stella had tried to braid it and tuck it out of the way, but the plait didn't take; her hair had wriggled its way free before she'd even tied the bottom.

"Do we know how long that's going to last?" James inquired after a moment of regarding the subtly writhing locks springing from his wife's head.

"I don't know," Stella admitted.  "I've never heard of anything like this happening to anyone before.  Tia hinted that the Kraken left something of itself in me when it died and I was still with it, and that it might be permanent."

"Might?"

"Well, she said 'if I lived'.  Clearly, I'm still alive."

James frowned.  "That's... ambiguous.  And when did you talk to Tia, anyway?"

"While I was out, I think.  I went and saw her.  I don't know... perhaps I dreamed it.  Perhaps it wasn't real.  After all, I also saw Hector Barbossa, and I know very well he's dead," she murmured, almost to herself.

"You haven't show any previous inclination for flights of fancy.  Perhaps it was symbolic.  Or perhaps it was something mystical you don't understand—surely you can't comprehend everything," James pointed out, kissing her forehead gently.

Stella smiled tiredly.  "Perhaps.  At any rate," she sighed, brushing her hair over her shoulder (and then scraping it off her fingers, since it had developed a tendency to curl around any hand that came close enough), "I suppose we will just have to wait and see.  And not allow anyone outside the circle to see me until I have it under control."

"Which limits your callers to Caroline d'Ascoyne and Anne Witcher."

"For a while, I suspect.  Why, were you planning to host a dinner party tomorrow?" she asked archly.

"Let's see if you can walk off this ship under your own power, first," James suggested dryly.

She couldn't, as it turned out.  Having never acquired a pair of sea-legs, Stella tended to stagger and weave on the ship's deck, the fact she was still shaky and ill notwithstanding.  To her credit, she made it out of the room and down the hall without assistance.  Then she quietly accepted James' arm, and leaned heavily on him as he led her out to the longboat.  He actually had to pick her up and set her in the boat himself, and once they reached the shore he had to carry her to the carriage.

The people on the docks and near the shore stared curiously as he passed, his wife in his arms.  The two Norringtons were something of local celebrities: James, the fallen, then redeemed Commodore-cum-Admiral, and Stella, his pirate bride, who'd become much more interesting since she was arrested.  Hence, there was a certain measure of craned necks and whispers as the Admiral and his wife passed.

Stella had anticipated this, and had wrapped her black cloak around her shoulders, revealing her somewhat worse-for-wear skirts but concealing her hair.  James had press-ganged a midshipman to carry their things, and soon enough they were pulling up to the Norrington house.

"Home..." Stella breathed, once the carriage rolled to a stop.  "I cannot wait to sleep in my own bed.  After a bath.  A hot bath.  With lavender."

The servants—including the housekeeper, the butler, and a rosy-cheeked Estrella—met them in the foyer.  Though the entire domestic staff was, technically, on Beckett's side, they were very low down in the hierarchy, and were not party to Beckett's plans.  The recent treatment of the Norringtons, thought to be staunchly behind the East India Trading Company, had taken them as much by surprise as the rest of Port Royal, and James fancied that at least some of them were worried for their employers—even if, as Stella thought, it was only worry for their continued employment.  Beckett wouldn't pay them if the Norringtons weren't around to be reported on.

Still, no matter to whom the servants reported to after hours, Stella was the undisputed queen of the house.  Beckett was a shadowy figure who paid them extra money for apparently trivial information—gossip, even—while Stella was the woman from whom they took their orders every single day, and who always seemed to have an uncanny knack for knowing exactly what they were up to.  And despite the fact that she was about the same colour as chalk and propped up against her husband, it was to she they turned for their orders.

James had no idea so much was involved in running the house.

When she was finished seeing to everything—meals, laundry, the ever-important baths, and a promise to inspect the budget later—Stella was nearly cross-eyed with exhaustion.  Between James and Estrella, she was manoeuvred upstairs.

"Oh, Ma'am," Estrella breathed, after Stella nearly tripped on the stairs.

"I must look as awful as I feel," she mumbled wryly.

Estrella was tugging slightly on the cloak, trying to unwrap it from Stella's head.  James grabbed the fabric, and shook his head when the maid looked at him strangely.  "Better leave it on, for now," he advised.  The look morphed from quizzical to befuddled, and James smiled tightly.  "You'll see soon enough.  I'm sure you'll be quite surprised."

"Mmm, indeed," Stella concurred drowsily  She was practically asleep on her feet.  "Tell me, Estrella... do you believe in magic?" 

* * *

 

Two hours later, Stella was deeply asleep.  She'd had her bath, attended by both James and Estrella to make sure she didn't fall asleep and drown.  (Well, she fell asleep, anyway, but James made sure her head didn't slip under the water.)  They were now the only two people in the house who were party to the unique nature of Stella's hair.

It seemed to enjoy the water; James supposed that made sense, since the animate aspect of his wife's hair had come about through some Krakenish witchery.  The Kraken was, after all, a creature of the sea.  And the hanks of Stella's long hair wiggled happily (at least, James assumed the... tentacles... were happy; they seemed to exude a general sense of merriment) whenever they were submerged.

Estrella had nearly fainted when James first unwound the cloak from Stella's thin shoulders, and laid eyes on the way the lady's hair writhed and curled completely on its own.  She'd had to stifle a scream when she went to brush her mistress' hair, and it had actually curled around her fingers, like a snake.

"What's... what is that?" the maid stammered.

"Harmless," James had drawled.   "Because of a series of events instigated by Lord Beckett and which I don't entirely understand, Mrs. Norrington found herself in the position of interacting rather closely with a Kraken—the after-effects of which are currently wrapped around your wrist.  It won't hurt you," he repeated, "it's just... animate."

By this time, Estrella had apparently grasped that fact, and had ceased to look so entirely terrified.  Indeed, she was sliding from fright to curiosity, gently stroking the wet lock wrapped around her hand.  "It's just like hair, only... moving," she breathed.

The bath had moved quickly after that, and soon enough they were shaking Stella awake and making her get out of the tub.  Both she and her hair protested at this; the woman muttered and scowled, the hair wiggled and writhed petulantly against Stella's wet skin.

"You must be getting very good at getting my wife into her nightgown while she's unconscious," James remarked quietly, impressed as he watched Estrella neatly manoeuvre Stella into her linen nightdress.

"It's all the practise, sir," Estrella quipped.

They tucked her in, her hair spilling over the edge of the bed and wriggling peacefully, apparently just as tired as the head from which it grew.  Then they crept out of the room.

"Take care of her," James requested of Estrella.  "Make sure she eats—she'll likely sleep through meals unless you wake her.  She'll need your help to get around for the next few days... I don't know where Lord Beckett will order the fleet tomorrow, so I may have to go away.  I'll trust you with her care in my stead."

"I'll see to her, sir.  She always gets so sick," Estrella frowned.  She seemed to consider something, then blurted, "She's not much like Miss Elizabeth."

James felt a chill, even in the fading heat of the afternoon.  "No, she's not," he allowed.  "But Elizabeth isn't here."

Estrella heard the snappishness in his voice, and immediately dropped her eyes.  "Beggin' your pardon, sir.  I just..."

"You miss her," James supplied.

"Yes," the maid admitted.  "And I worry about her.  She... they took her away on her wedding day, and put her in prison—the same cell Mrs. Norrington was in.  And then we never saw her again."

James hadn't known about that—either that Elizabeth had been arrested on her wedding day, or that Stella had shared the same cell as Elizabeth.  In both cases, it seemed a case of Beckett adding insult to injury.  "For what it's worth, Stella thinks she's still alive," he offered weakly.  Then, even more grudgingly, "And when I saw her last, she was with Mr. Turner."

Estrella nodded.  "Well, he'll keep her safe," she said, then looked nervously at him.

He arranged his face into an expression that he hoped looked impassive.  "Yes, he will," he agreed.  Whatever else could be said about William Turner (and James could think of several choice descriptors), he would certainly protect Elizabeth with his life.  "But I don't suppose we'll ever see them back in Port Royal—at least, not while Beckett is alive."

It made sense, but James wasn't sure he actually believed it.  He wasn't sure if he wanted to see Elizabeth or Turner again.  He knew he loved Elizabeth... or perhaps he had loved, in the past tense.  Again, he wasn't sure; he didn't seem to know his heart anymore.  But life was decent—life would be excellent, if Beckett would just push off and leave Stella alone.  James had his position, his reputation, his home, his wife, and a baby on the way.  Everything he'd ever wanted was his—except Elizabeth, and all she represented.  But he'd dealt with that loss, and was moving on without her.  James was fairly confident that he'd be able to forget her—mostly—in time, but only if he didn't have her before his eyes constantly.

And yet... a tiny, quiet, yet surprisingly noticeable part of his heart still longed for her.

Estrella, meanwhile, was scowling at the mention of Beckett.  "I don't like him," she muttered.

"Very few people do," James noted wryly.

"Most of the staff does, though," the maid remarked guardedly.  Her eyes flicked uncertainly up to his face, as though checking his reaction.

"Yes, well, most of the staff is on his payroll," James snorted, relieving her anxiety regarding the question of whether or not he knew about it.  "People generally like those who give them money."  Stella would've laughed; Estrella just looked a bit worried.  "Don't worry, Stella already knows."

"She's a quick one, is Mrs. Norrington," Estrella smiled, though her brow was furrowed.  "Quick, but not strong."

"She's strong enough when Beckett leaves her alone," James demurred.  "And she's not to have any visitors—not even Caroline d'Ascoyne or Anne Witcher—until she can walk downstairs, on her own, without any support."

"I'll see to her, sir," Estrella promised.

James nodded.  "Good.  She needs looking after." 

* * *

 

Of course, when James had delivered his ultimatum regarding Stella's movements, he hadn't anticipated the flurry of visitors that would descend on their house when word got around that Mrs. Norrington had returned.   Caroline and Anne, of course, came by and requested that they be informed when Stella was up to receiving callers.  The wives or sisters of every man James saw in Beckett's office the day he'd taken Stella from prison dropped by—Stanhope, Fitzherbert, Merriman, Lucas—left their cards.  Even people who hadn't interacted with Stella since the party celebrating their marriage—Edwards, Penrose, Protheroe—stopped by.  And one personage—a Captain Isaac Bell—kept knocking on the door and demanding to see Mrs. Norrington, though James had never met him, or even heard of him in Port Royal before.  But at least once a day, Captain Bell would come to the Norrington house.

Stella, however, spent most of her time resting in her room.  Sometimes she would take walks down the corridor, but she hadn't been able to manage the stairs yet.  Psychic trauma, she said to him when he visited in the evening, was a funny thing.

Several days after their return, James received a summons from Lord Beckett.  He was to present himself to Beckett's office in the E.I.T.Co. headquarters—the same place in which James had delivered the Heart of Davy Jones to Beckett in the first place and started this whole fiasco.

He was being summoned.

This wasn't the way the navy was supposed to work.

But he went.  Cutler Beckett had adequately demonstrated that if James Norrington (or Stella Norrington, as the case may be) did not do as he commanded, there would be a punishment delivered.  And the punishment wouldn't come to the transgressor; Beckett would strike at the other Norrington, the one who hadn't transgressed.  James didn't think Stella could survive another of Beckett's punishments.  So he went.

The office on the docks was bustling, as usual.  He could almost smell the money; commerce was in the air.  Commerce and conspiracy.  He stepped into the office; there was Beckett behind the desk, as always.  And curiously enough, there was Governor Swann, tucked away into a corner and bent over a pile of documents.  Beckett certainly wasn't bothering with any further outward shows; he was the power in the Caribbean now, and he wanted everyone—except the Crown—to know it.

_Yes... and I wonder what the King and Crown would think about Beckett's activities?_   That thought was tucked swiftly away.

Beckett looked up at his entrance.  "Ah, Admiral," he greeted smoothly.

James just turned a deadpan stare on his superior.  "You summoned me, Lord Beckett?" he inquired, putting enough colour into the word to convey his true feelings regarding the matter.

"Yes.  Something for you there," Beckett announced in what he probably thought was magnanimity.  He ruined the impression when he smiled an unkind smile that set off warning bells in James' head.  He knew that smile, and what it portended: Beckett had set something up that would likely dredge up uncomfortable or painful emotions, and was looking forward to observing his reaction.  Stella used to do that, too.

Beckett gave him one more tantalising hint.  "Your new station deserves an old friend," he said, glancing significantly over at a table under the map.

James followed his gaze, and found a familiar dark blue box on the table.  He wouldn't... it wasn't... could it be?

He approached the box slowly, feeling that strange sensation that had become rather familiar, in which it seemed that everything had changed, while nothing had.  Was he Admiral Norrington, serving under Beckett and married to Black Stella Bell, or was he Commodore Norrington, serving no one but the King himself, looking to marry Elizabeth Swann?  Either way, James had a feeling he knew what was in that box.

Thankfully, his hands were steady as he unlatched the box and lifted the lid.  But he needed to press his fingers against the lip of the box when the contents were revealed.

He'd never thought to see this sword again.

But here it was—there was the deep blue of the handle, laid in with filigree.  There were the golden tassels.  When he picked it up, his hand remembered the exquisite balance.  It was the sword—the sword made by William Turner.  The sword he'd carried during his disastrous tenure as Commodore.  The sword he thought he'd left behind.

James looked away, needing to think about something else for a moment.  His eyes found Governor Swann, bent industriously over his desk.  Weatherby wouldn't meet his gaze, and looked studiously down at his paperwork—which had multiplied.  A marine had just given him a new ream of documents.  "Not more requisitions," Swann sighed unhappily.

"No sir," the soldier replied, with the air of one who thought he was going to be helpful.  "Executions."

_One of those could have been Stella_ , James' mind whispered as his fingers tightened on the hilt.  _If Beckett told him to, Weatherby Swann would have signed the death warrant for my wife.  Would he have even looked at the paper he was signing?_

Feeling vexed about the whole situation, he unsheathed his sword and stared at the blade.  He could see his green eyes reflected in the steel.  Twisting his wrist slightly, he watched the morning sunlight dance across the polished metal.

He wasn't sure what to say.  ' _I could've used this several months ago_ ,' was a thought.  So was the similar, ' _I could've used this a fortnight ago_.'  _'Why give this to me now?_ ' was also an option, along with, _'Couldn't you have given me any other sword?_'  All of this, however, was overlaid with the thought ' _You're a nasty piece of work, Cutler Beckett_.'

There wasn't anything he could say, really.  James looked up from the blade and found his eyes drawn over to Governor Swann.  The sword was fraught with memories for him as well; one potential son-in-law made it, another received it.

Weatherby was staring at the shining blade.  Then his eyes flicked up and met James' for the first time since he'd stepped foot in the room.  They shared a moment of perfect harmony, thinking about the man who'd made the sword and the woman who'd loved him, whom both of them had loved, and anger towards the man who'd driven her away.  There was also a sense of foreboding.  Beckett was toying with them, and they both knew it.

But an instant later, Weatherby looked away, dropping his eyes back to his death warrants.  James, feeling stung, slid his sword back into its sheath and turned back to Beckett.

"Thank you for returning it, Lord Beckett," he finally said, when he trusted his voice to be steady and impassive.

"I realised that you had need of it.  I imagine the events of our most recent tête-à-tête with Davy Jones would have perhaps gone differently had you a sword at hand.  We don't want you to be without it should the situation arise again," Beckett replied, eyes gleaming.

James knew he was referring to Stella, and smiled tightly.  ' _The best way to ensure that it never does would be to use this sword to stab you through the heart,'_ he thought poisonously.

Aloud, he merely commented sourly, "Indeed."

Later, in his office in Fort Charles, James had a visitor.  A tentative tap on the door didn't even draw his attention from his paperwork, and he curtly bid them entry without even looking up.  "Yes?" he demanded.

"James?"

The quiet, nervous query made him look up with a jerk.  "Governor Swann!"  James stood immediately, and gestured him to a chair.  "Come in—sit down!"  He shut the door behind them.

"Thank you," Swann said, settling himself tiredly in one of the chairs.

"Are you all right?" James inquired.  He'd never seen Weatherby look so old.

Swann just smiled weakly.  "Shouldn't I be asking that of you?"  James was shocked to see Weatherby's tired blue eyes fill with tears, and a torrent of words burst forth.  "James, I'm so sorry—I didn't know Beckett would do that to Stella—I never meant her any harm.  But Elizabeth... I have to protect Elizabeth... I sign what he tells me to, write what he tells me to, and in return he'll save Elizabeth. I never even bother to look at the names anymore," he added softly.  "I didn't realise that I'd signed Stella's arrest warrant until after you were already at sea. I wanted to apologise, but... but... James, is she all right?  People say she's on her deathbed."

"That's what they're saying?" James asked incredulously.

"Well, people haven't seen her for days—"

"Because I want her to rest!"

"Is she terribly sick?"

' _She looks only slightly worse than you_ ,' his mind whispered, as he took in Weatherby's haggard face; the bags beneath his eyes, the unhealthy tint to his skin, the wealth of wrinkles that had appeared in the past few months, the defeated set of his shoulders.  "She's getting better," James replied impassively.

"Is... is she terribly angry with me?" Swann inquired sadly.

"She's angrier with Beckett, when she has the strength to get angry at all."   Swann seemed to wither, but James placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.  "She understands, Weatherby.  Truly, she does.  Beckett has us all tangled in his web—we're all doing things we'd really rather not."

"I'm still terribly sorry she got caught up in this," he sighed.  "Please, James, tell her I'm sorry."

"Tell her yourself—she won't be angry."  Weatherby still looked downtrodden, and James insisted.  "She's going to be a mother.  She'll understand."

"Perhaps I'll wait until she's stronger..." Swann demurred.

"She'll be strong enough to see you when she's receiving callers at all."  James grinned.  "I told her she can't have any visitors until she's strong enough to walk downstairs without any assistance."

Weatherby smiled weakly in return.  "And how did our Stella take that?"

"She was too tired to protest."

Of course, when Weatherby's face fell, James knew he'd said the wrong thing.  If Stella was too weak to protest a heavy-handed order like that, it meant she was very weak indeed.  "What have I done...?" he whispered.

"We don't blame you, Weatherby," James assured him quietly.

"But perhaps..." the governor said slowly, looking off at something beyond the physical, "Perhaps you should."


	27. Stella Gerrarum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which James does not make a new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Want to know something tragic? My family lost my snake. Remember my snake, Colonel Monty? Yeah, they lost him while I was on holiday, and given how small he is compared to the relative size of the house and all its hidey-holes, I'm probably never going to find him. Grr. I'm never letting them snake-sit again. :p_
> 
>  
> 
> We did eventually find his little desiccated corpse under my bed, when the cat fetched him out. Poor bebe...

James wasn't sure how surprised he was when he returned home and found that there was a visitor in the parlour.  "Who's here?" he inquired of the butler.

"A Captain Isaac Bell, sir," the butler replied.  "He insists on seeing you immediately."

 _Again?_   "How long has he been here?"

"Several hours, sir."

He felt a headache coming on.  "And how is Mrs. Norrington?"

"I believe she was able to traverse the upstairs corridor today, sir."

"Will she take supper in her chambers again?"

"I believe so, sir."

"Well then," James said, taking a deep breath, "I had better go see what this Captain Bell wants.  Otherwise he'll keep coming back," he muttered.

James strode into the parlour, noting the slender man standing at the windows.  He wore the blue and gold of the armada's colours, and a powdered wig on his head.  "Captain Bell, I presume?"

Bell turned, bowing politely.  "Admiral Norrington.  I've waited some time to meet you," he remarked.  There was a peculiar sort of bite to his words.

"Yes, I'd noticed," James replied, smiling dryly.  "Well, here I am."

Bell came closer, staring intently at him.  His eyes were a clear agate grey, and surrounded by very dark eyelashes.  It made his eyes look even larger than they were.  He stopped only when he was mere inches from James.  Bell was much shorter, but the air of barely restrained energy about him made him seem taller.

"Where is my sister?" Bell demanded quietly.

James stared at him blankly.  "What?"

"My sister," Bell repeated intently.  "Stella Esmerelda.  Where is she?"

"Your sister?" James parroted incredulously, still trying to process this turn of events.

"Yes, my sister!" Bell snapped.  "Black hair, dark eyes, pale skin?  They say you've married her—well, where is she?"

The headache he'd felt threatening earlier was now pounding behind his eyes.  He sat down on a chair and rubbed his temples slowly, wondering why he hadn't considered that Captain Bell was related to Stella—she had, after all, been a Bell before he married her.  A bastard Bell, perhaps, but a Bell nonetheless.  On the other hand, Stella had never mentioned a brother—or any living family at all, for that matter, save for a mythical uncle she'd never met.

"You claim to be her brother?" James finally asked, looking up at the potential brother-in-law standing in his parlour.

Now that he was looking for it, he could see some similarities.  There was Stella's pointed nose, and there was her thin, angular face, though much less delicate and pale.  There were her thin, expressive lips and her proud, pointed chin.  Stella must have taken after her father.

"I am her brother," Bell snapped defensively.

"She never mentioned a brother."

"I haven't seen her for eleven years."

James raised his eyebrows.  "That's a rather long time.  Have a falling out, did we?"

A pink flush crept up Bell's cheekbones.  "I didn't have a choice," he muttered.  "She's my... natural... sister."

Well, he looked like Stella.  He had her maiden name.  He knew she was illegitimate—and was discreet enough that he didn't mention which one of them was the bastard.  But all of these things could have been ferreted out by Beckett, or by Mercer before he'd left.  James wasn't sure yet.

"How did you find her again, after eleven years?" he inquired mildly.

"I'm the captain of the _Raven_ ," Bell replied curtly.  "I was out in the hurricane with the rest of the fleet.  It was the strangest storm I have ever seen; it didn't act like a normal storm.   When I heard her laughing on the wind, I knew it for certain.  I asked around, when I got back into port.  Everyone knew Stella Bell—or rather, Stella Norrington, since she got married a few months ago," he amended bitterly.  "James Norrington's pirate bride."

Bell's grey eyes were burning as they fixed themselves relentlessly on James' face.  "They say she's been sick.  They say that no one's seen her since her husband took her to sea during a hurricane.  They say she's dying, even now."

In a surprisingly fluid movement, Bell reached into his coat and drew a pistol.  He had it cocked and pointed steadily at the Admiral before James managed to do more than stand up.  "I want to know: where is my sister?" he demanded, voice hard as steel.  "Where is she, and what have you done to her?"

"I haven't laid a hand on her," James replied lowly, anger building in his chest.  How dare this man—how dare anyone—think he'd harm his wife?

Bell sneered at him, and the resemblance to Stella was startling.  "Then why does everyone in the town seem to think she's a sickly creature?  My sister was never sick a day in her life, yet within months of marrying you she's apparently on her deathbed."

"She's not dying, for God's sake!" James exploded.  "She hasn't been receiving callers because she's ill!  And I had nothing to do with her illness—the blame for that belongs to two people: Lord Cutler Beckett, and Stella herself."

The pistol didn't waver.  "I want to see her."

James rolled his eyes.  "Fine," he grumbled.  "If you'll permit me to ring for a servant, I'll have them check and see if she's awake.  If she is, I'll assist her down to see you.  If she is not, you will have to wait until she is."

"Fair enough," Bell agreed.

He kept the pistol steady on James' body as he went and rang for a servant.  He was more stealthy when the footman entered and James asked if one of the maids could check with Estrella to see if Mrs. Norrington was awake, please?  But the gun remained.

"Perhaps you might sit?" James offered sardonically, after the footman had left and the gun was out in plain sight again.

Bell did.  But his aim didn't waver.  "How did you meet her?"

"I was stranded on Tortuga, like she was," James replied, rolling his eyes and sitting down across from Captain Bell.

"Tortuga?  That's where Stella and Eleanor ended up?" Bell asked incredulously.  "I thought they were bound for Jamaica."

"They were.  I understand there were pirates along the way," James shrugged delicately.

"Ah.  This would explain the 'pirate bride' label."

It was possible that James hated that label even more than Stella herself did.  "Stella's no more pirate than you are," he grumbled.

"I didn't think she was."

The two men glared at each other across the room.  In the silence, a footman entered, and Captain Bell quickly concealed his pistol.  "Mrs. Norrington is currently awake, sir.  Shall I tell her that you wish to see her?"

"Yes," James replied, not moving his gaze from Bell.  "Please have Estrella help her downstairs.  Tell her," he added wryly, "that Captain Isaac Bell has come to call and renew the acquaintance after eleven years of estrangement."  That should take care of the gossipmongers for now; he'd ask Stella how they'd spin this after he didn't have a pistol pointed at his head.

Once they were alone again, Bell hissed furiously, "We weren't estranged!"

"Oh?" James inquired, raising a brow quizzically.  "Correct me if I'm wrong, but you haven't seen or spoken to each other in eleven years?"

"Correct."  It sounded like Captain Bell was clenching his teeth.

"That implies estrangement to me."

"Never mind!" Bell snapped.  "I just want to see my sister!"

They sat in hostile, uncomfortable silence for a long time, until the quiet chiming of Stella's ubiquitous bell-necklace was heard.  Bell drew in a sharp breath and stood, his steady aim faltering for the first time since he'd drawn the gun.  Then the door opened, and Stella appeared.

She was relying on Estrella's arm to keep her balance, and her hair must have still been giving her problems, since it was tucked under a white linen cap.   Her dress was simple—one of the ragged Tortuga gowns she kept for God knows what reasons; he recognised it as the yellow-green dress she'd often worn before he married her (James was always on her to get rid of those dresses, but Stella insisted that she would find a use for them, even if it was only as work dresses; personally, James thought it was a leftover habit from her years on Tortuga, where clothing was hard to come by, and guessed that Stella would always keep her clothing until it was nothing more than rags)—and she was wrapped in a light, grey merino wool shawl that James had bought her for her birthday (which had, regrettably, come but two days before her stint in prison; a strange birthday gift from Lord Beckett).  Her skin was still almost as white as the cap on her head, and her pale face (thankfully, no longer ashen) was arranged in the coolly polite expression that James had learned to interpret as wariness.

She blinked slowly, and arched a brow.  "May I inquire as to why you're pointing a gun at my rug?"

Bell blushed brilliant red, and fumbled with the hammer, clumsily un-cocking the gun and shoving it back into his coat.  "I just... it wasn't... it's a nice rug," he stammered.

"Yes, it is," Stella agreed mildly.  "The Witchers gave it to us as a wedding present.  Anne Witcher is one of my dearest friends."

"Good.  That's... good.   You were always so lonely as a girl."

"On the contrary, Isaac.  Just because I didn't have many friends didn't mean I was lonely," she corrected calmly.  Then, without looking, "James, stop smirking."

James did stop smirking—instead, he grinned outright.  He could easily picture a little-girl Stella, all wide black eyes and childish pride, amusing herself with only her family.  "My goodness, Starling, did humanity disappoint you so early on?" he inquired teasingly.

Stella sniffed, and tilted her pointed noise upwards.  "Just help me to a chair, darling," she commanded, hitting the endearment with a heavy amount of sarcasm.  "Estrella, could you procure some tea, please?"

"Of course, ma'am."

Soon enough, they were all seated, and James was sure to tuck Stella's shawl snugly around her arms.  He not only wanted to make sure she didn't take cold, but he was also making a pointed gesture for Isaac Bell, who'd dared to think that James Norrington would harm his wife.  Stella was, as always, well aware of these undercurrents, and smirked at him as he tugged her shawl higher on her shoulders.

"I trust the proper introductions have been made?" Stella inquired of Captain Bell as they waited for the tea.  Then a knife-sharp smile curled her lips.  "Or did you simply march in and point a gun at your superior officer?"

Bell's face went beet red.  "You know about that?"  Stella just gave him a flat look.  "Oh.  Well, you always were dead clever."  The look didn't move; Stella wasn't blinking.  Bell's flush deepened.  "Well, he wasn't letting me see you," he muttered.

Stella sighed.  "My rash, foolish Isaac," she remarked tiredly.

"You never told me you had a brother," James interrupted reproachfully, feeling rather left out of the conversation, and the familial loop.

"You've never told me about your family, either," Stella pointed out.

"Yes, but my family is substantially less likely to show up on the doorstep and point a gun at you," James replied dryly.

Bell shot him a dirty look, and Stella rolled her eyes.  "He always was impulsive," she commented pointedly, glancing sternly at her brother, who went red again.  "But, in order to forestall any further confusion," she added dryly,  "James, this is Isaac Bell, my younger brother.  Isaac, this is my husband, James Norrington.  If you intend to shoot each other, do it where you won't get blood on my carpet.  Estrella, would you mind pouring the tea?" she called as the maid entered the room, bearing the porcelain tea service.  "I'm afraid my hands are not at all steady."

"Your hair is coming out the back of your cap," James muttered, as the clinking of the china covered up his voice.

"Damn," muttered Stella, shoving the wiggling black tentacles back under the white linen.

When tea was all poured and served, Stella dove right into the conversation.  "Which ship of the fleet do you captain, Isaac?"

Isaac didn't even start, and replied swiftly, "The _Raven_.  We weren't within sight of the _Endeavour_ during the hurricane."

"I felt you anyway," Stella remarked slowly.  "I felt someone familiar when I was the storm, but then the _Dutchman_ , and... well, things happened," she demurred.  She took a sip of tea.  "How have you been?  How's Antigua?"  A decidedly unfriendly twist of the lips.  "How's your mother?"

Isaac snorted into his tea.  "Mother is... mother.  She's tickled pink since George married some chit from England who's somehow related to some viscount.  She has no neck, though," he commented absently.

"Isaac's mother is my father's wife," Stella explained quietly to James, who was looking baffled.  "George is their eldest son, and the heir to the plantation."

His brow was still furrowed, though, and Isaac noticed.  "Didn't you tell him anything, Stelly?" he asked.  "Or did he think you fell to the ground with the rain?"

"Stelly?" James repeated, raising his brows at his wife, who had pinked faintly.

"Hush, Jamie," she retorted.  Then, returning to Isaac's query, "He knows some.  I told him a little about Mama and Papa."

"Yes, where is Aunty Nell?" Isaac wondered.

James immediately reached for Stella's hand, and gave it a reassuring squeeze as her expression grew grave.  "Mama's dead, Isaac.  She's been dead for almost seven years," she said quietly.

Isaac had gone pale, and he set his cup down slowly.  "Oh.  I... oh.  Well... I-I'm sorry," he stammered.

She smiled bitterly.  "Well, only the good die young."

Changing the subject, James remarked, "It appears that Stella has brought me more in-laws than previously thought."

"Not that anyone other than Isaac with recognise the connection," Stella added acidly.

"So, there's you, and Isaac," James began to list, "and your other half-brother George—"

"Who's hated me since I was born," Stella added sourly.

"Then there's your father...?"

"Edward," Isaac supplied.

James went on with the list, "Stella's mother, Eleanor, Edward's mistress, and Edward's wife?"

"Sarah," Stella supplied, her lips twisted eloquently.  James raised an eyebrow, and Isaac rolled his eyes.  "Yes, she was going a little heavy on the biblical allusion, wasn't she?"

"I suppose that makes you Ishmael, then?" James inquired amusedly.

"I suppose," Stella agreed dryly.  "Either way, I suspect that Isaac is going to be the only relation of mine that you will ever meet.  Those that aren't dead refuse to acknowledge my existence."  She must have seen something that gave him away, since she arched a brow and added, "Much like yourself?"

Despite the lilt at the end, James knew it wasn't really a question, since she already knew and just wanted more information.  "Rather," he confirmed dully.  "Dead parents, a dead brother, two dead sisters.  They were killed by pirates when I was a midshipman.  My mother married far below her—all my father had left to him was a small income and a derelict name—and her relatives prefer not to acknowledge me, either.  I'm the proverbial poor relation," he explained ironically.

"At least you're legitimate," Stella remarked.  Her black eyes flicked to Isaac.  "Speaking of legitimacy, Isaac... perhaps you could do me a favour and treat our relationship with a measure of discretion?  No one knows, here, and I have much more to loose.  We have much more to loose," she added, glancing at James, and then patting her belly.

Isaac's grey eyes got even wider.  "You're expecting?"  Stella nodded.  "Well, congratulations!  When?"

"February or March, provided neither of us dies before then."

"But... but I thought you weren't dying!" Isaac protested.

"I’m not.  That doesn't mean I won't be some time later.  Lord Beckett is unfortunately imaginative," Stella shrugged.

"I didn't tell him," James muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

Indeed, Isaac looked very surprised.  "What?"  He apparently noticed the look James and Stella shared before glancing back at him.  "What is it I'm not being told?"

James and Stella shared another look, before Stella decided she would take point.  "Have you heard any of the rumours around town?" she inquired.

"Quite a few—it's how I found out where you were," Isaac replied, looking confused.  "Why?"

Stella ignored him.  "And what do they say?" she prompted.

James rolled his eyes.  She was doing that thing she always did—making the questioner answer their own questions.  It was rather Socratic, but it often annoyed him.  Couldn't she just answer straight?

Isaac looked just as annoyed.  "Stella—"

"What do they say?" she repeated sharply.

"Well, according to the rumours, your husband was engaged to be married to the governor's daughter, Elizabeth Swann," Isaac recited.  "But she threw him over for either William Turner the blacksmith or Jack Sparrow the pirate... accounts vary.  Heart-broken and seeking vengeance, the noble Commodore Norrington goes to hunt the pirate who ruined him, but looses his ship and flees, broken-hearted.  According to most, Norrington meets you on Tortuga, falls in love, and marries you when he's redeemed after stealing something of value from the said Sparrow.  Some people, though, think that you were desperate to snag a respectable man, and blackmailed him into it, and that he hates you for not being Miss Swann."

"I’m in the room, you know," James said sourly.

"I'm just repeating what I heard," Isaac replied defensively.

"James is sensitive about the Miss Swann issue," Stella explained soothingly.

"Well, her name is often connected to his," Isaac said, hitting the pronoun with a measure of disdain.  It was plain that Captain Bell did not much care for his new brother-in-law.

"She isn't here," Stella pointed out, her tone a warning.  "What are the other rumours?"

Isaac shrugged.  "A few think you're a witch... as usual... and that you've bewitched either your husband or Lord Beckett.  Some think that Lord Beckett wanted to marry you, but when you rejected him his love turned to hate and now he wants you to be miserable.   Other people think you've got blackmail material on him, and that he's trying to kill you off.  Some figure that Lord Beckett wanted make you his mistress, but your husband forbid it and now he wants both of you dead.  Another interesting rumour says that Norrington traded on you to regain his position, and that you're with child by Beckett."

"And after hearing these rumours, you came after James?" Stella said incredulously.  She shook her head and buried her face in her hands.  "You're such an idiot, Isaac."

"I was worried for you!" Isaac protested, wounded.

"James would never hurt me," Stella snapped.  Her lips curved upwards.  "He's not that stupid."

"The fact that I'm actually fond of you notwithstanding, of course," James added sarcastically.  "So, those are the rumours?  They don't even come close to the truth!"

"We were very careful about that," Stella murmured in return.

"Well, what is the truth, then?" Isaac wondered.  "You still haven't told me anything."

However, both James and Stella knew that their delaying hadn't done what they wanted, yet.  They still didn't know anything about Isaac's loyalty.  Yes, he was Stella's brother, but they hadn't seen each other in eleven years; Beckett may have gotten to him first.  James was content to leave the inquisition to Stella; it was, after all, her brother, and James didn't like Isaac any more than Isaac liked him.

"For one, the truth doesn't involve any blackmail," Stella said, wrinkling her nose.

"Actually, there's that titbit of information about Mr. Mercer that you haven't told me," James corrected, feeling free to offer that bit of information in the event that Isaac was a spy, since Stella already knew Beckett knew that she knew.  "That might count as blackmail."

"No, it's not blackmail," Stella insisted, rolling her eyes playfully.  "I'm not getting anything out of it."

"And you haven't bewitched me recently, either," James added.

"What are you talking about?  I never bewitched you at all!" Stella protested.

"You gave me something to drink, that first morning..."

"That wasn't bewitching!"

"Fine—you would know," James conceded.  "You've never bewitched me at all.  I married you under my own free will—God alone only knows why," he added dryly.

Stella sniffed, and looked back to Isaac, who was still looking confused.  "For Heaven's sake, Isaac, are you naïve, deliberately obtuse, or just plain thick?" she demanded sharply.

"I'm not the one who refuses to answer a simple question!" Isaac protested, wounded.

"You asked what the truth was," Stella chided.  "The truth is rarely simple."

"Semantics!" Isaac retorted.  "Stella, what's going on?"  Something seemed to occur to him, and his face fell.  "You don't trust me."

"I haven't seen you for more than ten years," Stella pointed out quietly.  "I don't know who might have gotten to you first."

"Nobody 'got' to me," Isaac insisted.  "I just... found you, finally.  What are you so afraid of?"

"Someone who has more power over me than I'm comfortable with," Stella replied quietly.  "But I won't tell you his name, since we're not enemies, per se.  Uneasy allies is perhaps the best term."

"You don't need to tell me," Isaac said after a long pause.  "It's Lord Beckett."  Another pause.  "Isn't it?"

"Well done, Isaac," Stella praised tartly.   "Perhaps there's some hope for you after all.  And thus, I hope you understand my uneasiness."  Her piercing black eyes rested on her brother for a long moment, and Isaac met her scrutiny calmly.  "If you ever betray me, Isaac, I'll destroy you," she finally said quietly.

"I won't ever give you cause to," Isaac promised.  "Father wanted me to look after you."  Stella titled her head to the side inquisitively.  "Do you remember that day when you came back bleeding after one of the children in the town had thrown a stone at you?" Isaac asked.

Stella nodded, but James interjected in horror, "They threw stones at you?"

"They thought I was a witch," Stella replied simply.  She brushed the edge of the linen cap away and touched a thin white scar at the edge of her scalp that James had never noticed before.  "Actually, I think that day was the same one that gave me this," she remarked idly.

"You were bleeding pretty badly," Isaac agreed.  "Father took me aside later and told me I'd have to look after you, because no one else was going to do it."

"I miss him," Stella said suddenly, sounding very lost.  Her fingers caressed the silver bells around her neck.

"Me too," Isaac agreed quietly.

James felt deeply uncomfortable, intruding on this shared family moment, and their longing for a father long-dead brought his own longing to the fore.  His entire family had been killed en route to Jamaica; the Norrington family had wanted to start a new life, and decided that since their eldest son was posted there, the Caribbean was as good a place as any.  But the ship had been destroyed when the powder magazine on their ship was ignited by the pirates who had boarded the ship.  (James had wondered, during the _Black Pearl_ fiasco, whether or not it had been that ship that had murdered his family, given their partiality for such a tactic.)  He hadn't known that he was an orphan until months later, when he was back in Jamaica on leave and his family wasn't there to meet him.

He missed them.

Isaac was speaking, again.  "I couldn't do anything when Mother drove you away," he was explaining apologetically.  "I tried to find you again, when I went into the navy, but it was like you and Aunty Nell disappeared into thin air."

"Thin air, Tortuga... it amounts to the same thing," Stella quipped sourly, then yawned widely.

"You shouldn't have meddled with that hurricane," Isaac scolded her.  "Aunty Nell always told you not to."

"Mama's not here," Stella replied, faintly bitter.  "And I didn't have any choice.  It was that or hanging."

There was a moment of silence.  Then Isaac shook his head.  "I'm glad I found you again.  Hanging, hurricanes... you definitely need looking after," he sighed.

"I believe that's my responsibility," James pointed out stiffly.

"Well, you're not doing a very good job, then, are you!" Isaac retorted hotly.

"At least I've tried—where have you been for the past eleven years?"

"That wasn't my—!"

"Boys!" Stella interrupted.  Her voice wasn't any louder than normal, but all the dishes on the table were lifted up and dropped with a clatter.  At the sound of the rattling china, James and Isaac fell silent.  "Shout at each other later, after I've gone to bed."  She turned to Isaac.  "Will you stay for supper?  It won't be much."

"Of course."

"Will you dine with us?" James asked her quietly.

"I think I can manage," Stella replied, half-smiling at him. 

* * *

Supper was simple and quiet, but Stella's hands were trembling a little by the end and she was obviously tired.  "I grow so very sick of being sick," she sighed as James helped her upstairs.  Isaac had retired to the study to await his brother-in-law; James had a feeling they'd have a screaming row the moment Stella was safely upstairs.

"Give it time, Starling," James chided her gently.  "You haven't been home yet a week."

"Yes, but I've been bedridden longer than that," she lamented.  "I want to go outside... I want to walk in my garden and watch the tide come in."

"I'd have thought you'd be sick of the ocean by now," James commented pertly.

She laughed tiredly.

Once she was tucked into bed and well on her way to sleep, her hair coiling and uncoiling idly behind her, James descended to the study.  Isaac was peering at the bookshelf, and commented, when he heard James enter, "Some of these are Stella's."

"I know."

Isaac drew his fingers across the spines of Stella's collection.  It was surprisingly substantial, though somewhat ragged and worn, and James had spent many hours on Tortuga perusing her collection.  She had many Greek and Roman classics—the _Iliad_ , the _Odyssey_ , the _Aeneid_ , the poems of Catullus and a collection of Cicero, both in the original Latin—and a taste for epic poems; all of Dante's _Divine Comedy_ was there and both _Paradise Lost_ and _Paradise Regained_.  There was a very tattered copy of the works of Shakespeare, and a collection of Chaucer and Boccacio.

"I gave her this one, for her tenth birthday," Isaac remarked, his hand resting on Dante's _Paradiso_.  "Aunty Nell—Eleanor, Stella's mother—gave her _Purgatorio_.  Father gave her the _Inferno_."

"Strange choices for a ten-year-old girl," James commented.  Yet how entirely Stella.

"She never had any friends—except me," Isaac added pointedly.

"Had," James repeated, equally pointed.  "She acquired a couple more during your separation."

"Including yourself?" Isaac sneered.

"We were friends before we married," James replied evenly.  "Very good friends.  Between myself, another... supernaturally inclined personage called Tia Dalma whom I've never met, Miss Witcher and Madame d'Ascoyne, Stella does not lack for companionship."

"She's not happy," Isaac countered.

"She could be happy enough, if a certain somebody would leave her well enough alone," James snapped back.

Upon later reflection, James felt that statement was ill-phrased.  It seemed to imply that Isaac was the 'certain somebody' impugning Stella's happiness, when he'd of course been referring to Beckett.  Isaac, however, apparently didn't see it that way.

So he walked over and punched James Norrington in the face.

The two naval officers spent a few minutes hitting each other.  When they were finished, James had a split lip and a bruise blooming on his side, and Isaac was nursing what would probably become a spectacular black eye in the coming days, and a nosebleed.

"I wasn't referring to you, you know," James grumbled, dabbing at his lip with a handkerchief.  Isaac glared at him with his one good eye.  "I wasn't," he insisted.  "I meant Lord Beckett.  I certainly didn't have any quarrel with you until you impugned my honour and pointed a gun at me."

"Impugned your honour?" Isaac repeated dubiously.  "I did no such thing!"

"You insinuated—nay, outright stated!—that I would dare harm my wife," James snapped.

"She's my long-lost sister and I heard she was dying," Isaac growled.  "What was I supposed to think?  I didn't know you from Adam!"

"Stella's right: you're terribly impulsive," James remarked acidly.  "I'm your Admiral, for God's sake.  Out of curiosity, what would you have done if I had been hurting Stella?  Shot me?  You'd have been court-marshalled and hanged the next day, leaving your sister a pregnant widow at the mercy of the world.  Well done," he finished sarcastically.

"All right!" Isaac shouted.  "So it wasn't a very good plan!  I just wanted to protect my sister!  She's so... she looks so tired, like the life's been bled out of her."

"She's sick.  What were you expecting?" James asked, rolling his eyes.  "Sunshine and flowers?"

Isaac snorted.  "More like clouds and nettles."

"She's always been like that, then?" James inquired, curious to hear about what Stella was like as a child.  He already had a picture of a solemn, lonely little girl who preferred her books and her family to anything else, a child who'd learned early on how hard the world was going to be towards a person of her dubious parentage and uncommon talents.

"Yes.  But she was always softer with the family."

Implying, of course, that James was not counted among that august number.  It seemed there would be no little-Stella storytime tonight, and that there would be something further to have out with his brother-in-law.  "I sense that the air is not yet clear between us," James commented sardonically.  "What, pray tell, is eating you?"

Isaac looked at him for a long moment.  James didn't move.  This Bell just didn't have the powerful stare his sister used so well.  "I don't like you," Isaac finally said.

"So I gathered," James replied sarcastically.  "And you are, of course, entitled to such dislike.  However, I would appreciate it if you would at least try for civility in my home."

"Stella lives here too," Isaac retorted.

"And it's for her that I'm asking," James snapped.  "She has enough to worry about without her husband and her brother at each others' throats."

"Do you love her?"

The question caught James completely by surprise, and he stared as Isaac blankly for a moment.  "Of course I love her!" he finally sputtered.

"You're lying," Isaac spat.  "You don't love her at all!"

James rolled his eyes.  "There's more than one kind of love," he said coldly.

"Don't give me that rot!" Isaac shouted.  "You married her—you should love her!"

"Now who's spouting rot!" James snorted.  "That's a highly naïve sentiment, I feel.  You know well and good that marriages among our set are just as often based on economics or status or any number of material concerns.  You need look no further than you own parents, am I right?"  Isaac, with two spots of colour high on his cheeks and an angry glitter in his grey eyes, nodded.  "How much better, then, that I actually happen to like the woman I married?"

"That's not good enough," Isaac stated heatedly.  "That's not nearly good enough!  Not for Stella.  Not for my sister."

"She has no complaints," James noted sharply.  "She doesn't want me to love her, any more than she wants to love me herself.  She scorns the feeling, and believes her family is cursed in love anyway."

"That's ridiculous!"

"Well, that's what she thinks."

"But... she always wanted to get married!" Isaac protested.  "We used to talk about it.  I hadn't quite started to like girls yet, but she said she'd marry someone as cunning as Odysseus and as eloquent as Cicero and have three children and—"

"And didn't you think to ask her about whether or not she intended to love this person?" James inquired dryly.  "I asked her, once.  She didn't want to love anyone.  She said she learned early on that there were no benefits to the emotion.  She didn't want love at the expense of her—and her children's—reputation.  She just wanted to marry a respectable man and bear legitimate children."

"That doesn't sound a thing like my Stella!" Isaac protested.

"She's not your Stella any longer!" James snapped harshly.  "You may not realise this, since you've been absent from her for more than a decade, but she's had a difficult go of it.  She lost her father, her home, and finally her mother.  She was left alone in a place she despised with people who could never hope to relate to or understand her—there were times when she wouldn't speak to another living soul for weeks!  It made her cynical, bitter, suspicious, vindictive and—"

"And I wonder that you married her at all, if that's what you think of her," Isaac interrupted acridly.

"Oh, I hated her at first," James admitted, smiling at the memory of those early days.  "But there's a good woman in there... somewhere," he added, sotto voice.  "My point being, of course, Captain, that Stella grew up into a woman rather different than the girl you remember, and that she is entirely content in our circumstances."

"Oh?  Are you content?" Isaac sneered.  "Do you think Stella minds that her husband loves another woman?"

"She's always known that I loved someone else," James replied evenly.  "And if Stella doesn't mind, I don't see that you should, either."

Isaac regarded him with eyes as cold as ice.  "She deserves better than you."

James had to bite his tongue to keep himself from retorting something along the lines of, ' _My maternal grandfather was the younger son of an earl, and my fortune, while small, is more than your sister could ever hope to have.  And what did she bring me?  Only her admittedly considerable wits.  She's a landowner's bastard and a witch to boot—I daresay she got the better end of the bargain_.'  If Stella ever caught wind of that diatribe—and if he said it aloud, he had no doubt that Isaac would carry the tale gleefully—she'd be justifiably furious with him.

Instead, he replied mildly, "I think that's for her to decide."

There wasn't much more Isaac could say to that, and he left the house shortly thereafter.  Stella didn't comment on James' swollen, bruised lip in the morning; she just mixed up a batch of the same tonic she'd given him on Tortuga.  The day after, she'd gained enough strength to walk downstairs on her own power, and the house was opened to callers.  Soon enough, the rumours that Mrs. Norrington was on her deathbed dissipated.

Of course, they were replaced with rumours about the relationship between Captain Isaac Bell of the _Raven_ and Mrs. Stella Norrington, née Bell.

James and Stella had expected it, of course; the resemblance between Stella and Isaac was plain to any who cared to look, and there was plenty of opportunities for the citizens to see.  Though Beckett's prohibition on assemblies was still in force (and making him no friends among the upper echelons of Port Royal), intimate teas were still allowed, and with the number of callers passing in and out of the Norrington house, it was inevitable that the rumour would spread with fair rapidity.

And having spread across Port Royal, it was inevitable that the rumour of Stella Norrington's long-lost relation (depending on who one asked, Bell could be her brother, bastard brother, legitimate brother, cousin, uncle, or even son (but that rumour was started by someone who'd never seen Stella and apparently couldn't add, either)) would reach the ears of Lord Cutler Beckett. 

* * *

Cutler Beckett wished Mr. Mercer was back from Singapore.  If Mercer was here, he could have ferreted out the truth of the rumours regarding the connection between one of his captains and his least favourite client.  Instead, he himself was left to sift through the morass in pursuit of the grain of truth.

Apparently, Mrs. Stella Norrington had gathered another ally.  This was nothing new, of course; Cutler knew that practically the entire population of Port Royal was on her side.  However, since he had the entire population of Port Royal terrified of him, that balanced out.  But her new ally was an officer of the fleet.  This was slightly more troublesome.  And the fact that she was related to said officer by blood made the connection nigh impossible to sever.

Captain Isaac Bell of the _Raven_.  The younger son of Edward and Sarah Bell of Antigua.  He had some relation to Stella Norrington, née Bell, Cutler was sure of it.  He'd seen the two of them around town (or rather the three of them, since Admiral James Norrington wasn't keen to let his wife out of his sight nowadays), and there was a strong resemblance.

According to his informants in the Norrington house (who were, unfortunately, much less effective than he would've hoped; Stella had, of course, known immediately, and done some witchery to ensure her conversations were never overheard), Bell had been a frequent caller to the Norrington house.  He hadn't been able to actually meet with either Norrington until a couple of days before Mrs. Norrington re-emerged into society; apparently, he'd bullied his way inside and later gotten into a fistfight and a shouting match with the Admiral.  They'd called a truce for Mrs. Norrington's sake, and she was often placed between the two of them at teas and such as a peacemaker.

One of the Norrington's servants insisted that Bell was Mrs. Norrington's cousin, and had wanted to marry her before her exile on Tortuga, and that was why Captain Bell hated the Admiral so. (Cutler made a mental note to delve further into that matter; why had the then-Miss Bell been forced to leave her childhood home, wherever it might've been, for Tortuga?)  However, one of the footmen hinted that the relation was closer, that Bell was Mrs. Norrington's bastard brother who'd been looking for her.  But Cutler was willing to bet that, out of Isaac and Stella, it was Stella who'd be the bastard.

But he needed to confirm that rumour before letting it be spread around.  It was obvious that Captain Bell took a healthy interest in the well-being of his sister, and alienating both him and Admiral Norrington with an unfounded (or rather, unproved) rumour regarding Mrs. Norrington might split the fleet.  That was something Cutler knew he couldn't afford.

Blast!  He wished Mr. Mercer was here; Cutler was no good with all this rumour-mongering. With the death of the Kraken (unavoidable, but a rather galling loss nonetheless), he'd had lost a rather significant piece of leverage over Mrs. Norrington, and he rather worried that the diminishing of the threat he was able to hold over Admiral Norrington would inspire a measure of misbehaviour from his wife.  And if Stella was going to misbehave, she'd do it much more subtly than her husband's flat-out defiance.  Cutler knew he was sharp, but was honest enough to admit that Stella Norrington matched him wit for wit.  Without Mercer to be his eyes, ears, and hands when need be, it was possible that Stella could pull one over on him.  That was a highly distasteful prospect.

Cutler huffed quietly and tapped his spoon lightly on his saucer, enjoying the chink of the china.  He'd already lost a possible source of information in Captain Bell.  He'd met the Norrington-Bell party out on the shore a day or two past, as Captain Bell made an effort to point out his ship to his... relation.  Though the resemblance was noticeable, Captain Bell did not have Stella's iron control, and his feelings were easily visible on his face.  And Bell was wary.  Stella got to him first.

And she was binding Bell and Norrington together.  It was obvious the two men didn't care for each other one jot, but they were tolerating each other for Stella's sake.  Cutler was rather jealous of that ability of hers—she could make people love her or hate her with just a few words, and no matter which one she chose to inspire, there was always a healthy respect generated as well.  He himself was a perfect example; he hated her violently, but respected her power like he might that of a poisonous snake.

 _Indeed, that is a particularly apt description_ , he thought, sipping his tea.  _She is the viper at my breast.  And Admiral Norrington and Captain Bell are her fangs, poised right above my heart and ready to strike, should she give the word._

Cutler knew, then, that he was going to have to do something about Stella Norrington, until Mercer returned and was able to ferret out something to draw her venom.  He set down his teacup and wandered over towards the veranda.

 _But what to do?_ he wondered as he gazed out across the harbour and all the ships—his ships—gathered there.  _She's marvellously useful; more so than her husband, even.  But her husband does command my fleet... many of the men are far more loyal to he than I.  Together, the two of them are formidable.  Stella commands the town, Admiral Norrington commands the fleet._

He turned to return to his desk, and his eyes fell on the chessboard next to the cabinet.  Inspiration niggled, and Cutler strode over to ponder.  He reached out and rested a fingertip on the black bishop.  _Stella_.  He placed the other on the other bishop.  _Norrington_.  _Of course, in chess, the King never need worry that his bishops are conspiring against him._

Insight dawned.  _Of course!  The king never need worry because his bishops—indeed, the entirety of the pieces—cannot meet!_ Cutler slid the Stella-bishop a few black squares forward, then moved the Norrington-bishop an equal amount of white squares.  They were close, but did not touch.

 _I will have to scheme up such a scenario_ , Cutler decided.  _Something that will separate them, but without inciting rebellion in the wife or completely unhinging the Admiral._   Norrington's insistence on protecting his wife was beginning to edge into the neurotic.

Sitting down to further regard the inanimate chessboard in lieu of their living counterparts, Cutler Beckett began to plot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N: Cue ominous music._
> 
>  
> 
> _Yes, soon enough, we really start getting into AWE territory—or rather, the territory that vexed me terribly once I'd seen the film. I spent ages trying to figure out not only how the whole thing fit into a timeline sane people could understand, but also where the heck Stella was going to be for the duration of the film; the whole "let's hang everyone with connections to pirates" bit at the beginning threw the whole affair off! Of course, since I finally decided to sod canon entirely, I eventually teased things out. Still, it was a little vexing._


	28. Stella Periculosi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stella does several foolish things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe this is actually 2008, now.
> 
>  
> 
> _A/N: Here we go again! Domesticity's just about over; next chapter it's back into the action. This is the beginning of a new arc, so to speak. Y'know? The story's kinda split into different arcs; the pre-meeting arc, before James and Stella know each other; the Tortuga arc, in which they're on Tortuga; the limbo-arc, I guess it could be called, before they're married; the Port Royal-arc, in which pretty much all the action takes place there; and now this one. But I won't tell you what this arc will be called, 'cos that would ruin it._

"I could get used to this," James remarked one evening.

"Hmm?" Stella inquired lazily.

"Your hair being... animate.  I could get used it," he repeated.

The hair in question was quiescent for the moment, since James was slowly running a brush through it.  It had become a nightly sort of ritual while Stella was sick, and had continued on when she got better: just before retiring, James would come to Stella's room and brush her hair while they talked about the day's happenings.  It was a precious morsel of private time—at least, when James was on land—and helped to quiet Stella's hair, who seemed to enjoy the brushing as much as Stella herself, to the point where it would sometimes curl around James' wrist and refuse to let him leave.

Stella laughed.  "That's convenient, seeing as I don't think it's going to go away.  I've rather gotten used to it myself," she agreed.  "Of course," she then added sourly, "we only say this because I finally got it under control."

Indeed, once Stella had started to gain her strength back, her hair grew more and more active.  It refused to be tucked under caps and hats, and Stella had needed to retire to her chambers for several days until she learned to control it.  James had needed to bite his lip more than once during that time to keep from laughing as muffled curses sounded from his wife's bedchamber, followed by shrieked vows to simply shave her head.

However, there was very little that could stand up before his wife's strength of will, be it a hurricane, a sea-monster, a poisonous British aristocrat, or an unruly mop of hair _cum_ sea-monster.  Within four days, Stella was not only able to coax her hair into a braid and under a hat, she was also able, with minimal help from Estrella, to coil it up on top of her head in the more intricate society styles.  She could use it to pick things up, open doors, turn the pages in her books—even unbutton his waistcoat, when she was feeling cheeky.

Nevertheless, the secret of her Kraken-infused nature of her hair was still kept to a small number of confidents.  There was, of course, James and Estrella; Caroline d'Ascoyne and Anne Witcher had been included, and Isaac Bell as well.  Lord Beckett might suspect, but he didn't know for sure.  Stella's friend Tia Dalma probably knew as well, but since she was, as Stella noted, on a boat in some ocean, her inclusion wasn't going to have any effect on their lives.  And James knew from the wistfulness in her voice that Stella missed this Tia Dalma person.  He wondered what she was like.

"I find, Starling, that there is very little you cannot have under your control soon enough," James noted wryly.

"Flattery will get you everywhere, my dear," Stella retorted playfully.  Then, changing the subject, "For whence do you sail tomorrow?"

"I have no idea," James replied, continuing to run the brush through Stella's long hair.  "Nor do I imagine that it's very important.  I believe Lord Beckett is simply sending me off to polish the doorknobs."

"Mmm, yes," Stella agreed.  "He has shown a rather vested interest this past month in keeping us apart."  Though James was sitting behind her, he could still hear the lazy smile curling her lips.  "I think he's afraid we'll conspire against him."

"I hate to point this out, Starling, but we are conspiring against him," James noted dryly.

Stella just cackled.

It was true: there was a conspiracy against Lord Beckett in the works.  James had been leery at first, and still wasn't entirely certain this was a good idea.  But Stella was adamant.  " _He isn't done with me, yet_ ," she'd told him.  " _If we don't move in retaliation, who knows what his next demand will be—or how well I'll survive it?_ "  James still balked, but Stella was persuasive.  " _We just want him to leave us alone_ ," she coaxed.  " _His goals are both admirable and viable, and we will maintain them and work towards their fulfilment.  But he simply cannot go along hanging everyone, and he ought to leave the navy to you, and he needs to let poor Weatherby alone, and he really must leave me be.  We'll leave him alive, of course.  But we must act now, before Mercer returns_."

There wasn't much else he could say to that.  He'd just said resignedly, " _You've got Lucifer's own tongue, Stella_."

Of course, she'd licked his ear in retaliation, and then he'd laughed, and they'd gone from there.  The conspiracy was still in its infancy—just making lists of names and contacts—and grew very slowly due to the amount of time Beckett was keeping the Norringtons apart.  But it was growing.

The town already belonged to Stella; they hated Beckett for his heavy-handed wielding of power, for ruining their daily lives, for making them live in fear, and would side with anyone who ousted him from their lives.  But they would do it quietly, subtly, and would desert like rats from a sinking ship should Stella be found out.  The fleet-side part of the conspiracy was much smaller; James himself and Theodore Groves, of course, and the newly-converted Isaac Bell were the most influential members—Isaac had thrown all in with Stella after having a meeting of some sort with Lord Beckett (after which he'd stormed back to the house and announced that he didn't want to talk about it).

Yes, Stella's brainchild was growing—just like her other child.  Their child.  The one threatened by Beckett, instead of the one threatening.  Stella was now almost four months pregnant, and her belly had grown visibly.  She'd had to put in some extra panels in some of her dresses, and had a few more made with larger pleats in the front.  She was also starting to gain back the weight that she'd lost after the hurricane, a little more than a month ago now; her features were not so sharp and her eyes no longer sunk in her face.  This, however, did not stop James from hovering around her when he was home, and fretting about her when he was not.

Life was settling down again, and James was thankful.  He only hoped things would stay so serene.

"At least hurricane season is almost over," he commented, setting the brush down and leaping backwards before Stella's hair could wrap around his wrists.

"Thank God for small mercies," Stella agreed.  "Of course, this will mean that Lord Beckett will have to search for a new method of visiting calamities upon our household."

"Don’t say that!" James groaned.  "Now it'll come true."

Stella rolled her eyes, before she stood, brushed her hands down her chest three times, turned in a circle, and spat on the floor.  James looked at her blankly.  "What, pray tell, was that?"

"It's meant to chase away bad luck," she told him flatly.  "Since you're so worried about it."

James thought about it for a moment, then copied her actions. 

* * *

 

He set sail the next day, for somewhere in the Virgin Islands.  Ostensibly, he was to gather more ships for the armada.  Truthfully, he was just being shuffled out of the way, and he'd had a variety of things to say about it before he left in the morning.

"I'm the Admiral, dammit," James had muttered.  "And I'm being sent out to do something that ought to be delegated to the vast selection of subordinates I have to choose from.  I've got reams of paperwork to wade through, supplies to requisition, and repairs to anticipate for these new ships.  And am I staying to get these things done?  Of course not.  I'm going to go be useless on someone else's ship because Lord Beckett is paranoid.  Wretched little son of a..."

"Who's the someone else?" Stella inquired.  James looked confused, and she elaborated.  "Whose ship are you using?"

James shrugged.  "The _Diamond_.  Thank heaven for small favours, I suppose.  If Lord Beckett sent me out on the _Raven_ , only one of us would come back alive." 

Stella started laughing.  "I have no idea why you and Isaac don't get along.  I wish you'd try," she chided amusedly.

"I'm not the one who needs that advice," James muttered.

Once she'd seen him off, she went back to the house and saw to the household accounts and the menus (which would be much simpler for the next week, since it was only she in the house).  After lunch, Anne and Caroline came over, and were joined a little later by Isaac.  Theodore Groves dropped by for teatime, since James had apparently asked him to make sure Stella was all right.

"What does he think is going to happen to me?" Stella asked incredulously.

"I have no idea," Captain Groves replied brightly, taking the chair next to Anne Witcher.  "But he's the Admiral.  Are those macaroons?"

Stella rolled her eyes, but rang for the servants to bring another cup.  As Groves helped himself to some biscuits, she inquired, "How go the repairs on the _Endeavour_?  I didn't think the Kraken had enough time to do too much damage."

Groves stopped chewing, and his eyes moved nervously to the other two ladies.  But when they just looked at him inquisitively, followed by a reassuring gesture from Isaac, he swallowed and replied haltingly, "The repairs go well.  There... er, wasn't much damage.  We're technically seaworthy, but we're missing some rails and a lot of the cannon ports won't open.  Some are missing—er, cannon ports, that is.  Not the cannons."

"Yes, I don't suppose she was terribly interested in cannons," Caroline sniffed.

"She didn't like them at all, really," Stella remarked, reaching up to touch the hanging curl on her shoulder, commanded to stillness.

"Poor creature," sighed Anne.

Isaac snorted.  "That 'poor creature' would've killed us all."

"Nevertheless," Stella replied primly.

The extra teacup arrived, and Stella poured Captain Groves a cup.  The quintet involved themselves with inconsequential conversation for a time, until Stella suggested that they have some music.  Anne volunteered to play, and Caroline, after a significant look from Stella, went to turn pages, leaving the three personages most connected with the navy around the table for private conversation.

Once the harpsichord notes began to flow in earnest from Anne's nimble fingers, Groves leaned in closer and asked, "How are you, really?"

"I'm quite all right, Captain.  Truly," Stella assured him.

"No... er, unwanted intrusions?"

"No.  Lord Beckett has left me entirely alone.  We can't quite say the same for poor James," Stella commented wryly.

"Indeed," Groves muttered.

"His place is here—should be here," Isaac agreed.

Stella picked up the teapot to refill his cup.  "It should.  He gets very upset when he's gone."

"He worries for his fleet—and for you," Groves acknowledged.

Isaac snorted. "You know, he frets a terrible lot, given that he doesn't actually love you."

Stella froze.  All the breath whooshed from her lungs, as though she'd been hit in the gut.  The teapot slipped from her nerveless hands and crashed into the tray, upsetting the cups and spilling tea all over the table.  The loud clattering of porcelain against silver interrupted Anne's playing, and caught her and Caroline's attention.  Her hair, freed from her iron control for a moment, tumbled out of the style she'd arranged it in this morning and started setting the tea table to rights.  Groves yelped, and skittered backwards, overturning his chair and sending himself spilling over the floor.  Anne and Caroline immediately stood and hurried over; Anne helped Groves off the floor, Isaac went for a towel, and Caroline took the teapot from Stella.

"Good heavens, Stella dear!  What did he tell you?  You're white as a sheet!" Caroline cried.

"I... nothing.  It's nothing," Stella said, voice growing stronger—almost savage—even as she remained frozen in her chair, her hands clenched so tightly her knuckles were white.  Anne came and stood behind her, combing soothingly through her hair in an effort to calm it down; sensing Stella's internal turmoil, it was writhing energetically around her body.

And not a moment too soon, since a servant (Alice, Stella's mind supplied detachedly) came in and tidied up the spilled tea.  She came back in with a fresh pot and new china while Anne and Caro were still fussing over Stella.

Once Alice was gone, Isaac apologised.  "I'm sorry—that was tactless.  I just... I didn't know you didn't know."

"What?" Anne whispered to Caroline.

Stella overheard.  "James doesn't love me," she said, still sitting rigid and unmoving in her chair.  Her friends gasped, horrified.

"No, that's not true," Groves broke in, with a kind of maniacal desperation.  "He does love you—he told me."

 _But not how he loves Elizabeth Swann—not the way a husband loves a wife_ , that painfully truthful part of her mind whispered, making something near her chest cringe in agony.

However, it was not in Stella's nature to display emotional turmoil before anyone, even her closest friends and family.  Isaac's declaration had taken her by surprise, but now she wasn't surprised, and it was time to tuck it quietly away until she could deal with it later, alone.

"Of course," Stella agreed mildly.  Then she concentrated for a moment, coaxing her hair back into the curled arrangement it had been in before she was surprised by Isaac's pronouncement.  "Forgive me.  My moods swing wildly nowadays—a consequence of my delicate condition," she explained, patting her belly gently.  Everyone looked dubious.  Stella rolled her eyes.  "I'm quite all right.  It was simply the way you said it, Isaac.  You made it seem as though he didn't like me at all.  Tact, my dear—perhaps you should look into it," she chided gently.

That seemed to satisfy the others that she wasn't heartbroken—except for Isaac, who still watched her warily.  But though he was tactless, he wasn't stupid, and Stella knew he was biding his time.  They'd have an unpleasantly emotional conversation after the others left, she was sure.

Stella managed the rest of the visit with admirable composure.  She smiled at the right times, laughed at the right times, supplied the correct dry remarks.  But only half her attention was on her guests.  And perhaps they sensed that, since the party broke up shortly thereafter.

Isaac was sitting at the harpsichord when Stella returned, plucking out notes in no particular order.  "You used to play," he remarked when he heard her re-enter the drawing room.

"I still do, albeit much worse than before," she replied distantly, sitting back down in her chair.  "So many years with no practise..."

Her brother came over and sat on the chair directly in front of her.  "He said you didn't love him.  He said you didn't want to.  He said you don't even like love."

"I don't.  He's right," Stella replied.

"Stelly, what's wrong?" Isaac asked plaintively.

Stella swallowed heavily, and looked down to her lap.  "Everything," she said quietly.

"Stella—"

"I didn't want to love anyone," she snapped harshly, interrupting him.  "I didn't want to end up like Mama, or Grandmama, or any other of my ancestors who loved so heedlessly and paid for it with tears and heartache and anguish!"  She laughed bitterly.  "I thought I'd learned better, but it seems pride truly does go before the fall.  I've joined the ranks of the foolish: I love a man who doesn't love me.  Well done, Stella.  Well done."  The anger and the self-loathing in her words were so thick she felt like she was choking.

"I didn't think it was a choice," said Isaac tentatively.  "Doesn't it just... happen?"

Her eyes snapped up and her voice grew savage.   "No, it doesn't," she snarled.  "I was supposed to be watching for this!  I should've been more vigilant.  I don't want to love him—I don't!  I wish I didn't!" she cried.

But the tragedy of it was that she already did.

With everything that had been going on—Beckett, pregnancy, hurricanes, Krakens—and the fact that Stella had achieved her goal of marrying respectably, she'd completely forgotten to guard her heart.  Living in reasonably peaceful domesticity with James had been slowly and unconsciously peeling back the layers, and now, when she finally realised she was in danger, it was too late.  The danger had come home to roost and Stella loved him.

She loved him—his dry, sarcastic sense of humour, his clever wit, his keen intelligence tempered with his complete awkwardness during any interaction with ladies.  She loved his devotion to duty and his fervent insistence on keeping her safe, contrasted with his slapdash disregard for his own safety in pursuit of higher goals.  She loved his wry grins and his open smiles and that soft, tender look he got when he rested his hands on her pregnant belly.  She loved his sharp green eyes and the wicked eyebrow waggle that always coaxed a snicker out of her and the tiny hint of a cleft in his chin.  She loved the way he called her Starling, but threatened to shoot anyone who called him Jim or Jamie or any sort of pet name.  She loved his deeply ingrained sense of honour and the well-hidden, subtle, but still-present piratical side that enabled him to steal the Heart of Davy Jones from Jack Sparrow, go head-on with Beckett, and finally muster up the courage to defy him.  She loved that he was confident in his abilities, but still humble enough to know that he couldn't do everything.  She loved that he was mannered and courteous and proper, but would still sit on the roof with her and look at stars.  She loved everything about him.  She loved him beyond hope and reason...

And would give anything to make it not so.

Isaac reached out and grasped her hands in his.  "There's nothing wrong with being in love, Stelly."

"Yes, there is," she replied desperately.  "I don't want it. I don't want to love him—it'll ruin everything!  I don’t want to—I don't!" she cried.  She straightened up.  "I have to fix this.  There must be something I can do... some kind of spell."  She stood up and immediately made a beeline for the study where she kept the grimoire.

Isaac kept to her heels, and watched her as she dove into the tattered old book with a single-mindedness that had only intensified during the years they had been apart.  He watched her as she paged through the tome, muttering to herself, watched as her brow furrowed and her lips grew thinner with frustration as she reached the end of the book.

Eventually, she slammed it shut and placed it back on the shelf, tension in every line of her body.  She glared at the book for a moment, and then swore pungently.

Her brother startled.  He didn't just... she did not... where had she learned those words?

Stella whirled around, and caught sight of his gobsmacked expression. She rolled her eyes so hard Isaac was surprised they didn't pop out of her head and roll across the floor.  "I lived on Tortuga for ten years, Isaac," she snapped.

Isaac just held up his hands in surrender—he knew this mood well enough, and, like with a wild dog, it was best to make sure one wasn't making any aggressive signals.  Stella would strike out without thought or remorse when she was like this.

He kept quiet as she started pacing, still talking to herself.  "There's nothing in there... honestly, though, were you expecting there to be?  Not in this family, and its history with men.  Oh no, let's not use our reason, let's just throw ourselves headlong off the cliff.  Not that I did any better... I didn't even see the sodding cliff.  But of course my mothers would have put nothing in there about avoiding the cliff if they were so eager to leap from it.  So... I have to do something else," she mused quietly, skirts swishing behind her.  "Goddammit, I wish Tia was still here.  She's the only person I could think to ask, because the only other option is..."

And then she stopped moving.

Isaac suddenly, inexplicably, felt worried.

Stella spun to face him in a cloud of linen and dark hair.  "Isaac, I think you'd better leave," she announced crisply.

"What?  No," he replied instantly, shaking his head.  "Why, what are you planning on doing?"

"Something potentially dangerous.  If it goes wrong, I'd rather you were able to tell James honestly that you had no idea what I was doing and that you couldn't have stopped me," she replied breezily, as if it wasn't something to worry about.

Isaac wanted to protest—he honestly did—but Stella glared at him with that look in her dark eyes (Eleanor's eyes, and yet not Eleanor's eyes; Eleanor's eyes were never that hard) and pointed a bony finger at him.  "I will do this, Isaac.  You can help, or you can leave, but you cannot stop me."

So Isaac sighed, and prepared to jump in over his head.  Again.

It was strange, how many things had changed, yet how some things remained the exact same.  As usual, Isaac had no idea what Stella was doing.  As usual, he wasn't willing to let her do it alone.  And as usual, he tagged along like a leaf buffeted in a windstorm.   It was like he was twelve again, cooking up some concoction with his thirteen-year-old sister, instead of being twenty-five and a captain and trailing along after his pregnant, married sister as she once again did something headstrong and stupid.

Stella was right: the women in her family certainly were eager to throw themselves heedlessly off metaphorical cliffs. 

* * *

"What, exactly, are you going to do?" Isaac asked.

They had moved outside, since that was the best place, into the back garden, where Stella grew most of the herbs and flowers she needed for her charms and poultices and spells.  There was a little clove tree and palms and a little bay plant and chrysanthemums and marigolds... it was a marvellous little plot, and it was Stella's pride and joy.

"I'm going into the river," Stella replied simply, continuing to write her words on the bay leaves she'd just cut from the plant.

Bay leaves for protection, for psychic powers, for strength and healing.  That was what she wrote on the leaves: her prayers for protection as she did this undeniably foolish thing, for the strength to find her answers and keep herself, herself, and healing for her wayward heart.  She would bind them together with a string she spun herself (hair would have been best, but as her hair was currently hosting the remnants of a Kraken, Stella wasn't sure she wanted to try cutting it), and burn them after.

"Which means what?" Isaac pressed insistently.  "How is it dangerous?"

"The river is hard to explain," Stella said absently.  "It's... everything is part of the river, and yet not part of the river.  It is in the river, but it cannot affect the river.  The river holds all the knowledge in the world, because everything is part of the river, but certain things can be hard to find... and if you find it, you might not understand it, or remember it when you get out of the river. It's not really a river at all; that is but the name we choose to call it, for in many ways it is like a river, with a current and a flow and the same power that can easily pull you under.  That is why it's dangerous.  Because you can get lost... pulled under, and find yourself unable to find your way back."

That had been how great-grandmother Isabella died.  She had gone into the river because she wanted to know something—Stella had come by her burning curiosity honestly—and gotten lost.  She hadn't been able to find her way back to her body, and nobody, not Grandmama Esme, a very young Eleanor, or even Tia Dalma, had been able to call her back.  Eventually Isabella had wasted away.

Eleanor had never forgotten, and never entered the river herself, nor allowed Stella to do so (which isn't to say Stella never had).  She would be furious if she knew what her daughter was about to do... and Stella wouldn't do it under any other circumstances.  But this was as optimal as she was going to get.  She was with child, so she had something strong anchoring her to the world outside the river; like in the hurricane, her daughter would keep her tethered to her body.  (Later, Stella would realise what a burden she had placed on her unborn child, and feel terribly guilty.)  She had her brother here as another anchor, someone safe to love, since love was one of the best anchors there was, and as someone who could deal with things if it went wrong.  (Later, Stella would feel remorseful for placing the burden of her life—or death—in Isaac's hands.)  And she was wanted one answer, and one answer only, which would make it harder to be swept away on a current.  (Later, Stella would realise she was being driven by fear to act like an idiot, and feel ashamed.  But this was all later.)

"Why are you doing this, again?" Isaac asked, rubbing his temples.

She finished writing on the bay leaves, and went to tie them together with one of the un-dyed cotton strings she used to hold the wind.  "Because I need to know how to fix this," she replied.

"Stella, nothing is broken," Isaac insisted irritably.

"I'm not getting into this with you right now, Isaac," she snapped.

Her younger brother subsided with ill-grace and an annoyed sigh, glaring mutinously at her.  But he subsided.

 _James wouldn't_ , her heart whispered.   She ignored it.

"What the hell am I supposed to do if this goes wrong?" Isaac demanded as Stella went to the centre of her garden and seated herself on the lawn.

"If it goes wrong, it means I'm lost," Stella replied after a moment, clutching her bay leaves close.  "Give me twelve hours, and then try to call me back.  If I don't come, get James to try when he returns.  I will still be alive... I will simply be absent.  Ensure that I'm fed and watered; there is little else that can be done."

"I still think this is stupid," Isaac muttered, and Stella could taste the acidity of his fear for her on the air.

Stella knew that she was still the most important woman in his life; she could see it.  Isaac had never gotten on with his mother; he was Edward's son, and George was Sarah's.  Sarah had hated Eleanor and Stella from the moment they stepped into her life, and tried so hard to keep everyone she felt was hers away from them.  She didn't succeed with Isaac, and resented him for it every day of his life.  Isaac, sensing that umbrage, had clung to Edward Bell's alternate family: Edward, Eleanor, and Stella.  Stella and Isaac had been inseparable from childhood until Sarah finally threw Eleanor and Stella off Antigua, after Edward was killed from being thrown from his horse.  And Isaac never stopped thinking about Stella from that moment until he found her again on Jamaica.

And that, Stella knew, was why Isaac didn't like James.  Isaac had finally found her again, but he'd found her as someone else's wife.  He wasn't the most important man in her life anymore; it was someone else.  Someone that Isaac didn't think deserved her, or loved her as he thought she should be.  And, unfortunately, Stella herself had just ruined the fragile peace.  Now, Isaac figured that Stella wanted James to love her.

She didn't.  She didn't want to love him, either.  She just wanted to go back to the way things were.  And for that, she needed to go into the river and see if there was any way to reverse things; maybe she could pull the emotion out of her heart, or something.  She didn't know of anything she could do, which was why she was going into the river.

"Quiet, please," Stella requested coolly.  "I will need to concentrate." 

* * *

  _The way into the river is through yourself._   That was what was written in Stella's grimoire.

Stella sank down into her mind, breathing evenly.  She went deeper, down where the power dwelled, and then deeper still, where the power connected to the world around her.  She sank into those connections, and was suddenly part of the world around her.  She could feel the trees and the flowers and the grass, the insects in the air, and the life of the wind; there was Isaac, hovering protectively behind her.  He glowed like a torch inside her mind.  Her daughter twinkled like a star inside Stella's own body.

And then Stella went deeper.  Down through everything, to the faint tethers that tied everything together, to where the gateway to the river was.  It wasn't a real gateway, and Stella didn't think she could describe the feeling to anyone who hadn't experienced it.  But one moment she was still part of the world, and the next she had fallen off the cliff and she was in the river.

There was a moment when she was everything and everything was her, when she knew everything and nothing and was almost lost.  But Stella had hedged her bets well, and she managed to keep herself.  And so she swirled off through the river.

She had to keep focused.  Even idle thoughts could send torrents of information rushing around her and bear her off to places she didn't want to go.  All she wanted was to know how to stop loving James in this horrible, enveloping, consuming, destructive way.  It was fine to love him as a dear friend, but these feelings she was unwillingly feeling had little to do with friendship.

Images rushed through her hair, accompanied by knowledge that Stella knew she would forget later.  It was strange, that though you may know many things while you are in the river, few remained with you once you left.

She sought fervently through the past and the present for any clues.  She was reluctant to search the future, just yet; that was the easiest place to loose oneself.  Eventually her attention was—inevitably—drawn to Tia, given the sheer amount of magical knowledge that woman had.  But it was there that she learned something strange: Tia was currently in Singapore with Hector Barbossa... whom she'd raised from the dead not five months ago.

She saw Tia return the man to life, and felt a stab of bitter anger—she'd begged Tia to resurrect her mother after Eleanor's death, but the other witch had refused.  And here she was, resurrecting this pirate?

But she knew why soon enough.  Barbossa was a Pirate Lord, and Tia needed him for something.  That must be one reason why Mercer was sent to Singapore, and the moment her thoughts turned in his direction she could see him prowling the alleys and bridges of Singapore, seeking the Pirate Lords fervently.  Worried, she turned her thoughts to Tia, and saw her safely ensconced in a room at an inn that the pirates had taken as their own after their ship sank in Singapore's harbour.  The only other occupant of the room was Elizabeth Swann, who was also deeply asleep.

And then suddenly, Tia's eyes opened, and before she knew what was happening, Stella was half out of the river and in the room.  It was a very strange feeling, made even stranger by the fact that Tia had apparently pulled her out of the river—how?  How had Tia even known?

The voodoo witch frowned at her.  "Stella, what you doin' here?" 

* * *

Tia knew that someone in the spirit world was looking at her.  It drew her from her sleep, and she came to awareness in the darkness of the muggy evening.  A quick glance showed that it was Stella cavorting around in the spirit realm—a dangerous place for little mortal witches.  Stella had no call to be putting herself in that kind of danger, and so Tia pulled her attention out of that world and into this one.  Had she not been bound, she could have done more than this, could have pulled Stella's spirit entirely into Singapore and then sent her back safely to Jamaica.  But she was bound and her full power was not accessible.  However, she was attempting to remedy that situation.  And little Miss Stella had a part to play in that, and had no business dying before this affair was over.

"Stella, what you doin' here?" Tia asked chidingly.

"I wasn't here," Stella replied, trying (and failing) to keep the petulance out of her voice.  "I was in the river."

"Dat be mighty dangerous," Tia chided, knowing that 'the river' was what Stella and her ilk called the untrammelled spirit world, where past touched future and everything was connected.  "And you bein' wit child, pitit... what drive you into de river?"

Stella, if she had been in her body, would have flushed slightly and perhaps fidgeted a bit.  As it was, Tia could see the patina of awkwardness, reticence, and consciousness of a slight foolishness that coloured Stella's spirit as she hovered in the room.  "I... need answers."

" _Wi_ , if you be in de river," Tia agreed patiently, with a wry grin curving her painted mouth as she went out into the common room.  It was empty and dark, but Tia didn't need lights to see.   "What bother you so?"

"I love someone and I want it to stop."

Tia sighed.  "Stella, dere ain't no magic goin' change what you feel," she informed her plainly.

"There must be something!" she cried.  "I refuse to simply lie down and let this feeling ruin my life!"

"You goin' have to," Tia retorted sharply.  "I tol' you: dere ain't no magic goin' change what you feel."

"What about... what about what Davy Jones did, carving out his heart?" Stella asked desperately.

"Him still feel it," Tia replied warningly, her face becoming stormy and tense and wistful and longing and angry all at once.  Thankfully, Stella was too terrified to pay any mind.  "Dere nuttin' you can do, _bijou_.  It's too late."

If she'd been in her body, Tia was sure poor Stella's heart would've stopped.  As it was, the terror that overcame her spirit was nigh visible to Tia's eyes.  "No!" Stella cried.  "It can't be!  There has to be something I can do... some spell, some potion, something... anything!  I won't feel this, I won't!  I won't let it ruin my life!"

"Hush, _pitit_ , hush," Tia soothed gently, moving towards her, reaching out to touch the spirit with hands and mind, wishing she was unbound and her full powers were at hand.  Poor, scared little Stella.  "All you life, you fear love, Stella," Tia remarked quietly, once the spirit had calmed.  "You t'ink it destroy you, when it come, and you run from it.  Fear's no' a sensible t'ing.  But don't let dis fear make you act de fool."

"Any more than I already have?" Stella asked dully.  "Tia, I watched my mother grieve for my father.  I watched her wither without him, without his love.  That can't be me.  Not ever," she confessed.  "Love... it's a bad idea.  I want nothing to do with it."

"Dat's beside de point, now.  It come, and now you got to deal wit it.  Nuttin' goin' change your heart.  And you fight too hard, you just hurt youself," Tia warned.

"Because of course I'm not in any pain now!" Stella grumbled.  "And I only foresee it getting worse.  Why did this have to happen?!" she cried angrily.  "Why couldn't I control myself?  Reckless, foolish girl!"

Tia sighed a little, and shook her head.  Little Stella had a curious blind spot regarding her own emotions; she thought she could control them, or ignore them, and that there wouldn't be any repercussions for doing so.  And now, when something had grown that she didn't want, she was going to fight with all she had against an enemy that had already conquered her, and no one could convince her otherwise.  The battle had already been won, but Stella wouldn't admit defeat until she was good and ready.  Tia found it incredibly amusing, and at the same time incredibly sad.  "So, what you goin' do?" she inquired, leaning back in her chair.

"Nothing," the Stella-spirit spat.  "If I can't make it stop... then I'll pretend it isn't there.  He mustn't know.  If there's to be pain, let there be pain—I will bear it.  But I won't have his pity in lieu of his love.  That shame I cannot stand."

"Always wit de pride, Stella," Tia sighed.

"In many ways, Tia, it's all I have.  I loose that, I've lost it all."

"You 'ave more dan you t'ink, _Pitit_ ," Tia warned.

"So do you, I expect," Stella remarked pointedly.

Tia laughed.  She should've known Stella would take her chance in the spirit-realm to look for more things than simply a way to fall out of love.  She and her family had always been curious ones—Stella's burning curiosity was so much like Isabella's, and when added to Stella's intellect, which was actually rather impressive... "'ave we been clever?" she asked.

"I think we have," Stella replied.  "Barbossa's a Pirate Lord, isn't he?"

"Aaaah, we 'ave been clever," Tia purred.

"What do you need him for?" Stella wondered.  "You need him for something, otherwise you wouldn't have brought him back from death.  You're very stingy with that particular ability," she added sourly.

"I do need 'im, but for what I cannot say to you," Tia replied, ignoring Stella's particular bitterness.  It was nothing new.

"Is it because you don't trust me, being in such close proximity to Beckett?"

Tia made a disdainful noise.  "Beckett.  I seen 'im kind afore," she scoffed.

The Stella-spirit was silent for a minute.  "What are you, Tia?" she finally wondered.  "You're not human.  You've got powers beyond anyone else I've ever known.  You see the future effortlessly and accurately.  You never age.   You need the Pirate Lords for some reason... that song.  That song I sung, when I was prison—it was a summons.  Summoning those Pirate Lords—Beckett wants them, too."

She was becoming more and more incoherent and disjointed as she went on.  Tia just sat back in her chair and smiled, knowing that Stella would put the pieces together eventually—not only was she was one of the cleverest little witches Tia had ever known, her metaphysical feet were still in the Spirit Realm.

"'The King and his men stole the Queen from her bed, and bound her in her bones... others sail the seas with the keys to the cage and the Devil to pay...'" Stella was quoting feverishly.  "Tia... you're the Queen in that song.  You aren't human, but you're in bound in human form.  And... and it was the Pirate Lords who bound you.  You must need all of them to break the binding, which is why you needed Barbossa.  Is there another one in Singapore?  That must be it—why else would you come so far?"

"Veery good, _pitit_."

"Why the song?"

"Dat's de summons—got nuttin' to do wit me," Tia dismissed.  "Dey sing dat song when de pirates feelin' t'reatened, so dey—de Bret'ren Court—can band togedder and fight de t'reat."

"Somehow that doesn't strike me as very... piratical.  I find it surprisingly organised."

"Dey are organised—organised enough to bind me!" Tia snarled.

"Who are you?"

Tia changed moods swiftly, and smiled sultrily.  "Now, dat be tellin'," she chided.

"Tiaaaaa," whined Stella.  Tia just laughed.  "That reminds me," she said suddenly, "I want to warn you.  Beckett sent his henchman to Singapore.  He should be there now, and he's looking for the Pirate Lord, just as you are.  Be careful.  Mercer is... not entirely human himself," she finished delicately.

" _Non_?" Tia inquired.

"No.  He's... well, demonic, frankly.  I haven't yet been able to accurately discern whether he's sold his soul, or whether he's merely a demon in human form, or if there are bits of him that aren't human... I haven't been in his company enough to tell.  Beckett controls him, after a fashion—not that Mercer needs controlling.  He's psychotic and fanatically loyal to Beckett and if he's looking for your people—and since Barbossa is a Pirate Lord, he is—Mercer will find you eventually.  There's no hiding from that... thing.  Be careful."

"Danger be comin' from all sides," Tia murmured.

"That is the common theme," Stella agreed.  "Have a care, my friend.  Mercer is dangerous.  Warn the others, if you must.  Although if you could engineer an accident for Miss Swann, I'd be much obliged," she added wickedly.

Tia burst into chortles, and dipped into her pocket for her crab claws, which she then cast upon the table.  "Have care youself," she warned the wind.  "Danger come at you soon."

"The worst danger I could have thought of has already arrived.  Only death can be worse, and Beckett values me too highly to see me dead—for now, at least," the spirit murmured.

"Dere be anodder danger—an' you goin' walk right into it," Tia warned.

"So... I shouldn't?"

"No, he goin' leave you no choice.  You go, but you walk light."  Tia reached out a slender brown hand to touch the crab claws lightly.  "Veerry light."

"I shall," Stella promised.

"Now, you get back to youself, and you stop leavin' you body.  Ain't good for the _pitit_ ," she scolded.  But before Stella's spirit sank back into the spirit world, Tia called out in addition, "It cross."

The wind paused, rustling the bamboo curtain.  "I beg your pardon?"

"Jus' a clue for you," Tia replied mysteriously.  "It cross 'twixt life and deat'.  _Bonne chance, pitit_."

"Good luck yourself, Tia.  Be careful of Mercer."  And then the spirit sank back into the Spirit Realm and was gone. 

* * *

Stella sank back into the river, but didn't move back to her body just yet.  There were too many questions she wanted answers to.

Unfortunately, many things you see in the river do not remain with you once you leave, save perhaps as dreamlike images or a sense of déjà vu.  This is even more true for those who look into the future, which was what Stella was doing.  So while Stella learned that her friend Tia Dalma was actually a bound goddess, knew the way to release her and Tia's plans for doing so, saw Cutler Beckett's plans and Will Turner's plans and Hector Barbossa's plans and knew how all these plans would meet and clash, learned of the Destiny of William Turner and the fate of James' beloved Elizabeth, and took warning from the dangers she and James were going to face after Lord Beckett forced them apart... unfortunately, she did not remember any of it when she came back to her body, save for a few images that would haunt her dreams for several weeks.

Eventually she came out of the river and opened her eyes, back on Jamaica.  The sun was setting, and Isaac was sitting on the ground in front of her.  Her brother visibly relaxed when her eyes opened.  "Thank God," he breathed.  "You were gone for hours."

"Time passes differently in the river," was all Stella said, wincing at the stiffness of her limbs after so being so long immobile.

"Did you get the information you wanted?" Isaac wondered, offering her a hand up.

Stella took it, and stood, hissing in pain as blood began to flow back into her extremities.  "After a fashion."

"And?" Isaac pressed.

She sighed.  "There is little I can do about my wayward emotions, save to hide them and hope they go away.  There is no magical solution... nothing I can do but bear it. And if you mock me for this, Isaac, I will curse you, and your ship, and your entire crew," she added savagely.

Isaac took her hand and squeezed it.  "I'll never mock you for anything," he promised.

Stella smiled weakly, and allowed him to hold her hand.  "However, at the moment I'm afraid we have larger problems to deal with.  Somehow, I ended up speaking with Tia... in Singapore.  It was very strange—I would have thought it impossible—but she warned me that danger was coming."  She neglected to mention that Tia also warned her that she was going to walk straight into said danger, knowing that if Isaac was cognizant of that fact he'd tie her down so that she couldn't walk anywhere, let alone into danger.

There was a pause as Isaac digested that.  "Well, what else is new?" he finally asked tiredly.  "There seems to be danger all around you."

Stella nodded, acknowledging his point.  Life certainly had been considerably more uncertain since she had left Tortuga.  After a moment, she broke the silence.  "Isaac.  Promise me something?" she asked, looking out across her garden.

"Anything within my power."

"Don't tell James."

"What?  Why?  He should—" Isaac protested.

"No!" she hissed.  "He's not to know.  He'll pity me, and I don't want that.  Say nothing to him.  Promise me!  Promise!"

Isaac sighed unhappily, and looked off at the horizon where the sun was beginning to sink down below the sea.  "Why'd you marry him, Stelly?  Why?"

"Because he'd take me off Tortuga and make me respectable," Stella replied coldly.

"It's a high price for respectability," Isaac noted.

"You only say that because you already have it, because you've never needed to fight for it, or live without it," Stella snapped.  "I have made my choice, Isaac.  I do not regret it.  But in order to continue on with no regrets, James cannot know.  Do not tell him.  Promise that you won't!"

"I promise," Isaac finally submitted.  "You're my sister.  He's just some man who doesn't deserve you.  I'd shoot him, if you asked it of me."

"Nothing so dire," Stella snorted.  "I want him alive.  All I ask is your discretion."

"You have it," he sighed.

Something tight in Stella's chest relaxed.  "Look at the sunset," she  said, glancing off towards the west.  "It's lovely tonight."  It was—the sun was a deep red-orange as it sank down below the horizon, painting the clouds deep purples and pinks.  "Shall we go in to supper?"

Supper was, as always when James was gone, quite simple: a roast chicken, some vegetables, and some bread baked fresh that morning with fruit for dessert.  After supper, they adjourned to the drawing room and started up a game of chess.  Stella was manoeuvring Isaac into check when Mr. Parker, the butler, entered the room and announced, "Lord Beckett to see you, ma'am."

"Lord Beckett?" Stella repeated.  "At this hour?  Hmm.  Well, show him in, of course."

"What's he doing here at this hour?" Isaac demanded quietly.

"I suppose we'll soon find out," Stella replied, surmising that he was come to deliver the danger Tia had warned her about.  "Check."

"Blast!" Isaac muttered, bending assiduously over the chessboard.  "How do you do that?"

Lord Beckett entered the room, and Isaac and Stella rose to bow and curtsey, respectively.  "Good evening, Lord Beckett," Stella said graciously.  "How do you do?"

"Quite well, Madam," Beckett replied, taking a seat near the chessboard.  "And yourself?"

"Very well, sir."

"Captain Bell."

"Lord Beckett.  Good evening."

"Good evening."

 _You could cut the awkwardness with a particularly blunt knife_ , Stella thought dryly.  She didn't know what had passed between the two of them a few weeks previous, but they were pointedly Not Looking At Each Other.  Both had their eyes focussed on the chessboard.

"Who's playing black?" Beckett wondered.

"I am," Stella replied.

"You've made a credible showing.  By all means, Mrs. Norrington, finish trouncing your... cousin," he suggested, gesturing at the board.  The general consensus in the port town was that Isaac was Stella's cousin, though, going by the significant pauses, Beckett obviously didn't believe it.  "I daresay it won't take long."

It didn't; Isaac capitulated about ten minutes later.  "I don't know why I still do this," he muttered.  "You've got an unfair advantage."

"What, a working brain?" Stella inquired wickedly.

Isaac made a face.  "Well, I shan't let you trounce me again," he announced.  "I think I'll go and steal some of your husband's fine port and peruse one of your books."  He paused, and glanced over at Lord Beckett.  "Perhaps you'd care to join me, Lord Beckett."

"No, thank you," he demurred.  "Though I would not be averse to some stargazing on your fine observation platform."

'Fine observation platform' indeed.  It was essentially just a rail on the roof.  Beckett was using it as an excuse to get her alone; he must have something he wanted to speak to her about.  It must be the danger Tia had warned her about, that danger she would have no choice but to avoid walking into.

"Of course," Stella agreed pleasantly.  "I believe we'll be in time to see Andromeda."

Normally, she wouldn't allow Beckett up to her observation platform.  It was hers, hers and James', a place untainted by politics or unpleasantness.  Now, however, it had been tainted by the awareness of her own feelings.  She'd ruined it anyway; why not let Beckett up there?

As they climbed the stairs up to the attic and the observation platform, Beckett observed, "You seem much improved since August, and the hurricane."

"I couldn't very well get worse without dying," Stella replied tartly.  "And whatever I did to the hurricane has of late forestalled any other major storms... though I know not how long that shall last."

Then they were at the door in the attic, and she pushed it open to reveal the tiny observation platform.  Stella went to one corner, Beckett went to the other, and there was still only a foot between them.  It really wasn't a big platform; more of a glorified terrace.

They stood in silence and gazed up at the sky, spangled with twinkling stars. The platform faced south.  "Betelgeuse," noted Lord Beckett.

"Signifying calamities, danger, and violence," replied Stella.  "Not a happy choice, Lord Beckett."

"But relevant, I'm afraid.  What do you know of the fleet's business?"

Stella looked across at him.  "Very little."

"And of the _Flying Dutchman's_ part in it?" Beckett inquired.

"Even less."

"But you know I'm building an armada."

"Of course.  It's rather difficult to miss."

"I want this armada to be the largest assembled since the Spanish Armada in the time of Elizabeth I—larger, even!  I want sailors to quake in fear from the mere mention of it.  With the _Flying Dutchman_ at the head, it will be unstoppable," Beckett said intensely, his blue eyes gleaming in the starlight.

"The fact that the _Flying Dutchman_ is at the head will do more to sow terror than the size of the armada," Stella pointed out pragmatically, looking back up at the night sky.  That gleam in his eyes made her nervous.  "And regarding the size of your fleet... I believe King Philip had 130 ships, most of which were actually merchant vessels."

"Correct as always," Beckett conceded.  "It's a brilliant way to gather a fleet.  I have no need to build ships for the armada—indeed, there is neither the wood nor the money for such an endeavour.  Instead, I will reclaim the ships of those whom I seek to eliminate. However, there's a slight problem."

"If I were a wagering woman," Stella said languidly, staring up at the constellation Orion, "I would wager that the problem lies with the recalcitrant captain of your prize vessel."

"Perhaps it's a pity that you're not a wagering woman, Stella, since you're so seldom incorrect," Beckett remarked.  Stella tightened her grip on the rail; she disliked how informally he treated her when they were alone, as if he had some right to her in a private capacity.  "Yes, it is Captain Jones who is creating a tangle in my plans.  I gave strict orders that the pirate ships the Dutchman encountered were to be stripped of their crew with the actual structure left intact.  Jones, however, has been sinking them outright."

"Have him bring them back up," Stella suggested.  "I believe he has that ability."  Indeed, since James had forbidden her to have anything to do with the Dutchman, she'd been collecting stories in lieu of the actual thing.  Apparently Davy Jones could raise ships that were the sole subject of his domain (i.e. the sea).  She wondered if his power had always been the sea, the same way hers had always been the sky.  What would she become, were she consumed by her element as Jones was his?  Would her hair be made of feathers or clouds, as Jones' was octopus tentacles?

"Yes, but the ships he raises are still damaged," Beckett pointed out.  "Given the amount of money involved in repairs, I could simply build brand new ships.  Besides, the point is not the loss of the ships, per se, but his wilful disobedience."

"Of how many ships is the fleet now comprised?" Stella inquired, changing the subject.  She knew that Beckett already had a solution for their most mulish betentacled sailor, but he wanted her to discover it.  But she took a perverse pleasure in thwarting him, and considered it a small repayment for the danger he was undoubtedly going to place her in.

"One hundred twenty," Beckett replied.  "Only ten less than the Spanish.  It would be one hundred fifty, were it not for Jones' continuous insubordination."

"I daresay you'll outstrip the Spanish soon enough."

"Only if I can get a leash on Jones.  I shall have to have someone supervise him.  He quite lacks the trustworthiness to be left to his own devices, I am convinced."

Stella finally realised what he was about.  Had Tia Dalma not warned her, she would have immediately assumed that James' next posting would be on the _Flying Dutchman_ as Davy Jones' leash, and she would have been terrified for him.  As it was, she knew that it was  she Beckett wanted to place on the _Dutchman_.

The thought filled her with both exhilaration and apprehension.  She could see the Dutchman.  She could go and see it and touch it and study it, and James would have no issue with it because Beckett was going to make her do it.  Beckett was going to hand her one of her deepest wishes, and all she need do was submit and accept it.  But after the interaction during the hurricane, she'd made an enemy of Davy Jones, and she didn't imagine he'd take her interference in his domain with kindness, grace, or any equanimity at all.  James would be rightfully furious, as well—but Stella was not at all adverse to the idea of some time apart.  If Beckett wanted to serve his purposes by keeping them apart, Stella could take the opportunity to exercise some control over her wayward heart so that she would be able to once against coexist tranquilly and indifferently with her husband.

"I would have thought you'd realised that after the incident with the Kraken," she remarked, shoving her excitement out of her voice and her brain and straight into her hair, which began to rearrange itself.  She imagined that it was dark enough outside to conceal the movement of her equally dark hair.

Beckett didn't respond to that.  She supposed he didn't like to be reminded of his own errors in judgment.  He surprised her, though, by remarking warily, "Madam, it appears that your hair is... moving."

Lord Beckett was more observant that she'd given him credit for.  Stella hadn't imagined he'd notice such a thing without Mercer to point it out for him.  "Indeed it is," she agreed lightly.  "I'm afraid it gets rather lively after a day of quietude."

She could practically hear him wondering whether or not her hair had always done that, or if it was recent—she had, after all, tried to strangle him with her hair while on the _Endeavour_ , and that was hardly something a man like Beckett would easily forget.

But he contented himself merely with remarking, "That's rather singular."

"Quite," Stella agreed solemnly.  _Come now, Beckett, offer it to me._

"Am I correct in supposing this... talent... is of recent acquisition?"

"You are."

"Perhaps attained because of extended interaction with a Kraken?"

"Rather more because the Kraken was killed while I was still attached, so to speak."

"Indeed," Beckett murmured.  "So, you are in possession of the last vestige of Davy Jones' Kraken left on the earth.  I should think that will incline him more favourably towards you than any other client under my patronage."

"Possibly," Stella agreed, though she personally thought hell would sooner freeze over than Davy Jones ever regard her with anything but loathing.  She had, after all, ruined his plan to retrieve his wayward Heart, and she was married to the very man who had stolen it.

A small part of her noted that putting herself in the power of a being who hated her husband and herself so heatedly with only the protection of an uneasy ally who liked her little better was a very stupid thing to do, especially for a lady four months gone with child.  However, Stella had been doing a variety of stupid things today, and the rest of her was squealing excitedly, " _The Dutchman, the Dutchman, we'll go and see the Dutchman!"_

Apparently Lord Beckett finally realised that he wasn't going to be able to manipulate the desired suggestion out of her, since he nodded and announced, "Very likely.  I should think, Stella, that you are the only person aside from myself who could exercise even a modicum of control over Jones.  Because you embody the remnant of his beloved pet, he shan't kill you outright."

"Insinuating that you'll allow him to do so if he conquers his sensibilities?" Stella interrupted dryly.

"Of course not," Beckett replied, rolling his eyes.  "There will, of course, be adequate protection.  Will you go?"

"Go?"

"Will you serve as my proxy on the _Flying Dutchman_ , and at least attempt to rein in Jones' excesses?" Beckett requested, though it looked like he was clenching his jaw.

"This is a highly irregular request, Lord Beckett," Stella demurred modestly, knowing that she had to make him work for it.  "I'm not an officer, or a soldier—I'm a pregnant gentlewoman who's been having issues with her health, and who's married to one of the men Jones hates best.  I honestly don't think—"

"You're the only witch I have at my disposal," Lord Beckett interrupted.  He must be getting desperate for her agreement.  "You're the only person I can count on to keep their cool on that ship.  You're the only one who could possibly relate to Jones, and can thus bend him to more productive efforts.  Stella, it absolutely must be you."

 _Flattery will get you everywhere,_ she thought.  Of course he made no mention of his private agenda, of which Stella likely only knew parts.  She figured, though, that she'd make him work harder for her consent.  "But how shall I serve the company if I'm on the _Flying Dutchman_?" she inquired innocently.

Lord Beckett appeared to ponder this for a moment, but she had a feeling he already had an idea.  "We'll set up a rendezvous, every fortnight or so.  You'll make the wind-strings as usual, and pass them on to the captain of whichever ship meets you," he suggested.

"Can you ensure my safety?" Stella pressed.  "Will you make certain that Jones cannot do me harm?  And can you guarantee that I will be off that hulking vessel by February?  I have no intentions of giving birth to my child on the ocean.  James has already contributed enough salt to her veins without circumstances adding more."

"I will make it perfectly clear to Jones that you are not to be touched," Beckett promised.  "And should I still require a presence on the Dutchman come February, I will make a point of choosing someone else."  He smiled thinly.  "I fully expect you to have cowed him admirably by then."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Stella murmured warningly.  "Hatred is often more powerful than fear, especially when, like Jones, the personage has so little to loose that fear becomes a rather moot point.  But I will, of course, do my best to be as intimidating as a short, skinny, pregnant woman can be."

"Then you will go?"

"I will," Stella acquiesced, allowing a smile to curl her lips.  "Provided you tell James."

"I will deal with your husband.  Can you be ready by midday tomorrow?"

"It will be a stretch, but I believe I can manage."

"Very well.  I'll send a carriage for you tomorrow at ten o'clock."

Beckett departed shortly thereafter, and Stella went into the study.  Isaac was sitting in one of the chairs and paging idly through Dante's _Inferno_.  He glanced up at her entrance and grinned bemusedly.  "Well, there's an expression I've not seen in a while.  What's got you so happy?"

Indeed, she was beaming so brightly that her cheeks hurt.  Now that Beckett was gone, she could be as excited as she wanted.  "I'm going to see the _Flying Dutchman_!" she squealed.  Then she jumped up and down and clapped her hands.  "I'm going to see it—I can study it!  Oh my, I need a blank book—two blank books!  No, three!  I'll need to write down the spells I could need—I'm certainly not bringing the whole grimoire—and I'll probably need some herbs and suchlike that I can't get on the ocean.  Ink, I'll need ink and quills—no, too fussy.  Pencils!  Isaac, I must get pencils!  And I'll need my glass—Grandmother Isabella's glass, do you remember?  The one that sort of bends everything a bit?"

"That trinket always scared the shit out of me," Isaac said blankly.

"Language," Stella chided, still riding high on the breeze of her enthusiasm.  "I suppose I can leave my maps—they won't last much longer if they keep getting beat up, and I shouldn't need to scry for anyone anyway.  But I'll need my rune stones, I think, since I can't expect tea on the Dutchman.  Hmm... I wonder if I can expect food?  I'll pack some, anyway.  Perhaps some things that can double as magical components, if needed.  And a knife—the silver athame, perhaps?"

"You have one of those?"

"Of course I have one of those," she replied dismissively, rummaging in James' desk for paper to make a list.  "I'll have to have one of the servants run down to the Stationers tomorrow—I need blank books and pencils."

Isaac watched her for a moment, and his brain finally seemed to catch up to the rest of him.  "Wait, you're going to study the _Flying Dutchman_?!  Are you insane?" he demanded.

"Yes, and no," Stella replied, flipping open the top of the inkwell.

"Is this what Beckett wanted to talk to you about?  He's sending you to... to that monster?!" Isaac exploded.  "I should've belted him one!"

"Is that your solution to everything, brother?" she inquired tartly, jotting down her notes.

"He has no right—"

"I agreed!" Stella snapped, slamming the quill down onto the desktop and causing ink to splatter haphazardly onto her hand.  "I want to do it, Isaac!  I want to go look at this... this marvellous magical construct!  I want to pick it apart and write it down and save it, because we are living in the twilight of an era!  Our children and grandchildren will be living in a world that has lost the grandiose supernaturalism we have known—and it's been fading even in our lifetime.  Soon there will be no more wonder left in the world," she sighed.

Isaac was unimpressed.  "The last time I recall you saying anything in that tone of voice, we tried to make Greek Fire in the back garden, and we accidentally burnt down the gardener's shed," he said flatly.

"I'm not trying to make Greek Fire and I think the _Dutchman_ is too wet to hold a flame."

"Yes, but the point I was trying to make is that your life is still in danger."

"Admittedly," she agreed evenly.  "But Beckett was going to force me into it regardless.  I may as well enjoy it."  She closed the lid of the inkwell and arranged her notes.  "He's sending a carriage for me tomorrow at ten.  We'll meet the _Dutchman_ around midday."  And she smiled again at the thought.

"What's your husband going to think about this?" Isaac queried, still sounding unhappy.

"He's going to be absolutely furious," Stella replied with particular relish.

"Is... is this some kind of passive revenge on him for not returning your feelings?" he wondered.

"Hardly," she sniffed.  "If I were to take revenge, it would be more direct and far more obvious.  I'd want him to know what he was suffering for.  No, I'm merely anticipating his reaction to discovering that Beckett has once again superseded his authority not only in his fleet but in his own home as well.  I imagine it will be magnificent," she breathed reverently.  "You must watch, and tell me all about it when I see you again."

"This is a bad idea," Isaac warned her.

"I know," she replied breezily.  "But as I've told you, I haven't a choice.  Beckett wants me on the _Dutchman_ , and if I don't agree to go with him now, he'll do something to James and force me.  Acquiescing is so much more pleasant for everyone."

Isaac finally seemed to realise that there was nothing to be said or done that hadn't been already, and threw up his hands.  "Fine.  Just... be careful?"

"I always am.  You be careful as well, and try to get along with James?" she asked.  "Keep watch on the conspiracy... try to think of a better name."

"Yes, 'the conspiracy' isn't exactly subtle, is it?"

"No.  We're only getting away with it because Mercer isn't here.  But if we don't have a better name and a bit more organisation before he returns, we're through."

"How much time does that give us?" Isaac wondered.

"He's in Singapore now.  That gives us three months, possibly more.  And I don't know for how long I'll be indisposed.  It's up to you and James—God help us.  I won't be around to arbitrate your little spats," she added in a mutter.

"We're not that bad," he protested.

"Yes, you are.  But feel free to prove me wrong," she offered sweetly.

"You know, the last time you said that—"

"Greek Fire, I know."


	29. Stella Officii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Davy Jones throws a tantrum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Periodically, I seem to go on multi-year hiatuses. This was right after one of them, following my graduation from college and my decampment to China.
> 
> _I'm sorry. I'm a bad, bad author. Bad!_
> 
> _Yes, I know it's been ages since the last update. I can explain; things got screwy. I got back to college, and not three weeks into term was I felled, first by the flu, then by pneumonia. That wasn't fun. Took me ages to recover, and make up all the class-work I missed. And it was a couple of months before I could walk to certain classes without wheezing when I arrived._
> 
> _Then, of course, I was in the unenviable position of trying to figure out what I was going to do after graduation, while at the same time I was actually trying to graduate. Eventually I discerned that I wanted to go to China and teach English, which necessitated the locating of a school which wanted to hire me, getting certified as a teacher (still not done with that), and learning some Chinese (definitely not done with that. My vocabulary is nonexistent). This next year I'll be going to teach at a private school in Yangzhou, China, which is north of Shanghai (and close to Nanjing, which I intend to avoid assiduously, given that my surname is of Japanese origin. I'm afraid they'll throw things at me. O_o)._
> 
> _And then, of course, came finals and graduation. I managed to pass everything (even French, which I didn't bother to study for all term), spat out another paper over thirty pages long, and graduated with my B.A. in history, cum laude. Yay me! And my best friend Becka got married, and I was the maid of honour, so I had lots to do helping her out. And now one of my other friends is engaged (the same friend who caught the garter at Becka's wedding, actually) and another is pregnant (and having a rather hard go of it)... we're all starting to be grown-ups. Eek!_
> 
> _And even during my free time, I admit to falling face-first into a different fandom which has occupied me until... well, which is, in fact, still occupying me (but a couple of reviewers have reminded me of my obligations here, and shamed me into shaking myself into action). Anyway. I've recently gotten interested in Buffy the Vampire Slayer, which also has a dark-haired, green-eyed, somewhat-stuffy Englishman for me to fangirl after. But I’m trying to keep on with this fic—I will finish it, even if it need be done in China! (Which it most likely will.)_
> 
> _So yes. Very sorry for the long wait. Thanks to those people who reminded me to keep going. Although this is not such a good chapter—it's one of those chapters where you just have to get the characters to where they need to be, and you really want to get them there, but they're not there. This chapter has been started and re-started... this is the fourth attempt. Bah. Be done already!_

Davy Jones was not a happy bunny.

He had not been a happy bunny for several months now, but as time passed he grew unhappier and unhappier, as he was forced to be at the beck and call of a domineering aristocrat of small stature who was, most unfortunately, in possession of his heart. Because of this unfortunate turn, little Lord Beckett had automatically ordered Jones to submit as a subordinate.  But Davy Jones bowed to no man.

Oh, Beckett spouted his orders, but Davy Jones would only pay lip service to them.  He'd fulfil just enough to avoid Beckett's wrath (Jones had no idea what Beckett did to his heart to cause the pain he felt every time he defied too obviously; perhaps a spell of some sort... or, given that Beckett was about as magically powerful as a garden-variety rock, merely a pin, inserted every so often—not enough to kill him, but enough to hurt), but otherwise go his own way.

And now Beckett came again, for yet another chastisement which would make Jones snarl and spit for days.  After which, Jones would toe the line for a few weeks, but eventually backslide until they came to this point again.  It was a vicious sort of cycle.

Captain Jones mused upon it as he smoked his pipe, watching the longboats row out from the beach towards his ship with a fierce scowl on his face.   "What the devil does he want this time?" he grumbled to Maccus.

"Prolly the same old, sir," Maccus replied darkly.

It certainly started out as the same old; red-coated soldiers scrambled up the side of his ship, forming a line of muskets.  This part of the ritual always amused Jones—what did they think those guns were going to do?  Not a whole hell of a lot, that's what.  It'd be bothersome to be shot, of course, but it wouldn't really have any long-term detrimental effects on any of his crew.  They'd get up again in a couple of hours.

Then came the hauling of the longboat up to the level of the deck—heaven forbid Lord Beckett exert himself and actually climb up the side of the ship like everyone else.  No, the pompous little man always had to make an entrance.  If Beckett couldn't stride masterfully across the gangplank between the _Dutchman_ and his substitute penis (because surely no man secure in his manhood would have a ship so large with that many cannons) then he had to make a great stride out of his longboat onto the deck.

Jones would have laughed, if Beckett were someone else.

Instead, he found himself standing on the quarterdeck, smoking his pipe and glowering and wishing he could just slaughter the man messily.  Of course, he nearly choked when he saw a lace parasol.

There was a moment of disconnection in his mind—Beckett with a lace parasol?—followed just as swiftly by a moment of sheer hilarity—Beckett with a lace parasol!  But before the amusement could bloom into disdainful laughter, the owner of the parasol appeared over the side of the deck... and it wasn't Beckett.

Jones knew her immediately, of course.  His introduction to her was the sort that tended to stick in one's mind, even if the power that hovered around her didn't tickle his mind the moment she set foot on his deck.  He knew her, all right.  But what the blazes was the Admiral's witch doing on his ship?

The Captain of the _Dutchman_ remained on the quarterdeck until he felt a sufficient amount of time had passed to make his point that he was not at Beckett's beck and call, ignoring the red-coated soldiers and the grumbling of his crew.  Then he stumped down to the main deck with the intention of demanding to know why that  creature was on his ship.

"What is that doing here?" Jones growled in lieu of a greeting, once he'd pushed his way through the throng of his crew and the line of soldiers.  He pointed his pipe at the dress-wearing demon, so that no one could mistake his intent.

Both Beckett and the witch raised their eyebrows in tandem, but Beckett stepped forward to talk with him, while the wretched creature simply shook her head and turned to peer at the rail.  Jones could feel her prodding at the ship with her powers.  He wanted to snap at her to stop (actually, what he wanted was to snap her neck, but with Beckett here that was unlikely, at best), but instead he had to pay attention to the tiny tyrant infringing on his territory.

"I am disappointed in you, Captain Jones," Beckett announced, without preamble.  Jones rolled his eyes.  "I had thought that we had gotten past these... childish tantrums of yours after the incident with the Kraken."

Jones went still for a moment, hiding his wince.  He didn't much care for anything or anyone nowadays, but he had been fond of the Kraken.  Maybe that was why Beckett had brought the harpy with him—Jones could feel the last remnant of his pet lingering on in her.  It stung, a little bit, to sense the bit of his Kraken inside something that he hated so much.

"Your behaviour continues to be unacceptable," Beckett was saying.  "Clearly, you can no longer be trusted with this vessel—"

That was unacceptable.  "It's my ship," Jones spat out venomously.

Beckett nodded calmly.  "But your ship is a member of the East India Trading Company Armada.  You are part of a whole now, Captain Jones, contributing towards a greater good.  In order for the whole to thrive, ever piece must contribute.  However, you have been shirking your contribution, and disobeying your orders," he said coolly, allowing a shade of annoyance to filter into his tones.  "Therefore, if you insist upon acting like a child, I am resolved to treat you as one."  And Beckett dropped the hammer.  "The command of this vessel is no longer in your sole possession—I cannot trust my prize ship to one whose judgement has shown to be so obviously faulty, or whose temper gets away with one's better sense.  You will henceforth be monitored by a person of my choosing."

And suddenly Jones knew exactly why Beckett had brought the wretch with him.  "No," he breathed, the tentacles comprising his beard beginning to writhe in agitation.

Beckett ignored him, and gestured behind him.  The sour vixen broke off from her prodding and came over, her pointy nose in the air, bold as brass and wearing his Kraken's aura like a fur mantle.  "May I present Mrs. Stella Norrington?" the aristocrat said, the corners of his lips quirking upwards the barest amount.  Jones felt his beard twitch, and his crab-claw hand itched with the desire to reach out and snap that slender neck.  "I believe you are acquainted," Beckett added diffidently.

The saucy bitch had the gall to curtsey to him, as though they were being presented at some society to-do.  "Captain Jones," she said mildly.  Her voice reminded him of the cry of a gull.  He hated gulls.

Jones was still so gobsmacked by the unwelcome turn his life had just taken that he was unable to do anything but stare at the hated entity.  Beckett took his silence as acquiescence and kept talking.  "Mrs. Norrington will monitor your behaviour as my proxy on this ship.  Every fortnight a ship of the fleet will rendezvous with this vessel, and she will report.  She is to be treated with all the honours due to a lady of her position, and all the privileges of a deputy of the East India Trading Company.  Am I understood?"

Gobsmacked had morphed into fury, though Jones was still unable to speak.  How dare he... how dare she—how dare they!?

"Captain Jones?" Beckett prompted, raising his brows.  "Am I understood?"

He started sputtering angrily, tentacles twitching (along with a muscle near his eye).  "Absolutely not!" he managed to choke out.

"I am not understood?  Shall I use smaller words?" Beckett inquired sarcastically.  The wench took a step backward, perhaps sensing the impending outburst.

She didn't have to wait long.  Jones was finally able to speak past the rage in his gullet, and he veritably roared, "Shove those smaller words right up yer lily-white arse, Beckett!  You—and she, and your whole damned company—can go straight to the devil!  I'll not have this wretch on my ship—I'll see her dead, first! I'm the Captain here, I say who stays on this ship, and I'll not have her here!  Sod you, and sod your orders!"  This was then followed by several anatomically improbable suggestions as to what Beckett, Mrs. Norrington, a few divine and infernal presences, and several of Beckett's relatives might get up to once they were off the _Flying Dutchman_.

Jones was spitting by the end of his tirade, and the vixen's black eyes were wide, but Beckett looked curiously unmoved, and merely removed a scrap of lace-trimmed linen from his pocket and dabbed Jones' saliva off his face.  "I'm sorry you feel that way," Beckett remarked mildly.  "Do you not fear death?"

Hearing one of his favourite phrases used so blithely by a person he hated more than anyone else brought Jones up sort, shocking him into a facsimile of calm.  "What?" he said.

"I believe our bargain was simple: you served in my fleet, and continued to... live," Beckett replied, though his eloquent pause and swift, disdainful glance showed what he thought of the circumstances of that life.  "However, you seem inclined to break our agreement.  If you are that desirous of death, Captain, simply inform me that our contract is void, and I will have you dispatched to whatever afterlife awaits you post-haste.  I'm sure I can find a replacement captain with little trouble—perhaps Mrs. Norrington's husband would be inclined to command the ship."

Jones snarled and gnashed his teeth together.  Damnation!  He was in a bind.  Beckett had just told him, in his oblique, stuffy way that if Jones defied him, his period of captaincy would come to an end.  And he'd be buggered before he led Beckett or any of his mealy-mouthed subordinates take control of his ship!

He turned his eyes back to the unwanted presence, looking her up and down.  Not much to look at, but he could feel the coiled power in her.  Nothing like... like Her power, but the harridan was strong.  Strong... and not alone in her body.

Jones was surprised; he supposed the Kraken in her had hidden the presence of her unborn child until he looked at her more closely.  And, in turning a gimlet eye onto her middle, he could just about discern the swell of her belly.  Wheels started to turn in his mind—what was Beckett about, putting a pregnant lady on the _Flying Dutchman_?  Perhaps there was trouble in paradise... perhaps the admiral was looking to have his little wife put away?

The potential for amusement and the harpy's future suffering assuaged his feelings slightly, and Jones subsided with ill grace.  "Fine," he snapped.  "I'll keep the wretched creature aboard—as per your orders."

It occurred to Davy Jones that there were a variety of things he could do to make things miserable for the little wretch while still following the letter of Beckett's orders.  This cheered him even further.

"Marvellous.  I knew you could be reasonable, Captain," Beckett said, smiling thinly.  He stepped closer and lowered his voice.  "If she dies, Jones, so do you.  Do you understand?  Little else matters as long as she lives."

Jones narrowed his blue eyes speculatively as Beckett stepped away.  It... it almost sounded as though Beckett was giving him a _carte blanche_ to make things difficult for the witch, as long as she was alive at the end of it.  That would make things... even more pleasant.  He was almost happy to have her on board now.

He glanced at the she-devil, whose black eyes were narrowed and whose thin lips were pursed so tightly as to nearly disappear.  Apparently she had heard as well, and the same implications had occurred to her; whatever other qualities she possessed, stupidity was not among them.  That would make it even more fun.

Jones caught the bitch's eye and smiled.  It wasn't a friendly expression.  He then had the pleasure of watching her sallow face go even paler.  Oh yes, she knew.

Within a short order, now that his dominance was once more established, Beckett took his men and left, leaving only the wretch and her trunk behind.  Jones stumped up to the witch and loomed over her; she craned her neck to look up at him, eyes wary but unafraid.

_What exquisite control she must have_ , Jones thought idly. _Breaking it will be an accomplishment to be proud of._

"Welcome aboard, Mrs. Norrington," Jones purred, hitting her name with a measure of scorn.

"Thank you for your... hospitality, Captain Jones," she replied evenly, hitting the word with an equal amount of scorn.

Blue eyes met black, and they shared a moment of understanding.  They were both at the mercy of Lord Beckett's whims, forced to do his bidding despite their own desires.

Jones looked away first—it didn't matter to them if they were stuck in the same fix, she was still a woman.  Still a miserable harpy in his way.  Still an awful creature.  He didn't want any feeling of kinship with her.

"She thanks us for our hospitality, gents," Jones called to his crew, who guffawed.  "Pity we don't intend to provide any!  Take her to the brig!" he commanded.

He saw the resignation and the lack of surprise in her eyes as she was shoved and pushed and otherwise borne along towards the brig, and it angered him for some reason.  Impertinent, venomous little bitch, to think she knew how this was going to go.  He'd show her.  He'd show her who had the power here, show her he wasn't to be toyed with.  She'd wish she'd never been born by the time she got off this ship.

* * *

 

If she'd been asked a half-hour ago, Stella would have expressed her surprise at Davy Jones' actions.  However, once she heard Beckett's aside to Jones, she'd known.  His orders had loopholes large enough to drive a carriage through, and she'd seen the moment Jones realised it.  Beckett wanted her alive, but didn't care how much she did or did not suffer in the meantime.  And she was going to suffer; she knew enough of Davy Jones to know that.  She only hoped her suffering would not adversely effect her studies of the ship.

Jones' crew of monsters led (using a loose definition of the word) her down belowdecks, into a damp and dim series of cells.  They shoved her into the largest, tossing her trunk in behind her (thank Heaven for small favours), before tromping back above, laughing raucously as they went.  Stella didn't miss them.

She sighed, and looked around what would surely be her home for a while... a long while.  It was... wet.  Very wet.  There was coral growing on the walls and the bars, and some... sort of reef on the bunk in the corner.  A far cry from her Port Royal house.

She sighed again.  "Damn and blast."  She bent to drag her trunk against the wall; it was heavy and she didn't make much progress.

"Let me get that," came a voice from the back.

Stella straightened instantly, spinning to face the voice with a gasp in her throat.  The reef in the corner—it had a face, and eyes!  Then the reef stood, and it turned out it wasn't a reef at all, just another of Davy Jones' crewmen.  He had a starfish and a variety of mollusks on his face, coral growing on his shoulders, his hair had become straggly bits of seaweed, and his skin was blue and cold.  But there was still something of a man in him—he hadn't been on this ship long enough to loose all of his humanity.  It was leaking away, but he clung to it with the desperation of a drowning man.  And there was a face, a face burned on his soul that she recognised...

"Thank you," she eventually said, as he came close to her and bent to move her trunk.

"Where d'you want it?" the man-creature asked.

"Against the wall, if you please," she requested.

He pushed her trunk against the wall.  "Din't think Jones took women on the crew," he remarked.

"He doesn't.  I am... let us say that I am an unwanted cargo," Stella said sourly.  She glanced at him again, looking with her metaphysical eyes.  His soul was curiously flat—perhaps because he'd signed it away to Jones.  But that just made the image of William Turner shine all the brighter.  "And you?  Why are you here?"

"Punishment."

"So I gathered—this is, after all, a prison," Stella drawled.  "But what did you do to earn this punishment, Bootstrap Bill Turner?"

That caught his attention, and he lifted watery blue eyes to her face.  "You know my name," he breathed.

She smiled.  She liked being right about this, since she'd been wrong about so much lately. "Yes, I'm acquainted with your son."

"William," Bill breathed, as if a prayer.  "My son... you know my son."  His blue eyes sharpened.  "Elizabeth?  Are you Elizabeth?"

Stella laughed, her quicksilver laughter that was here and gone and not actually amused.  "Hardly.  I am Mrs. Stella Norrington.  And I've only ever met your son thrice."

"William," Bill whispered again.  His face fell, and his despair was a stink in the air around him.  "He's dead, now."

"No, he's not.  He's not dead.  He was in Singapore, the last I knew of him—alive, in Singapore," Stella said quietly.  She had no love for William Turner, but his father's anguish had the tang of her mother's after her own father's death.  She hadn't been able to do anything for Nell, but she could provide what comfort to Bill Turner that was in her to give.

"Not... not dead?"  The hope in those blue eyes was painful.

"Not dead," Stella confirmed.

"How... how do you know?"

She smiled—that mysterious not-smile that James had always hated.  "I'm a witch, Mr. Turner.  I know."

Stella let him think on that for a bit.  She opened her trunk and got out one of her blank books and a pencil, and started jotting down what she'd gleaned.  She was rather pleased that there was actually a member of the crew here, and one who would probably be willing to talk to her, once she got around to asking questions.

She pulled Isabella's glass out from the chain around her neck and looked through it, scrutinising her surroundings.  Her great-grandmother had always waxed incomprehensible when asked how she acquired the glass; Stella always figured that it had been a gift.  If Isabella had made it herself, the spells would have been in the book.  Whoever had given it to her, however, remained anonymous; their identity was a secret Isabella carried to her grave.  Eleanor thought it was an heirloom Mirela had brought from Spain; Stella thought it was a gift from one of the old gods; when asked, Tia had just smiled mysteriously.  It was entirely possible that the glass had been a gift from the witch on the Pantano—especially given what Stella now knew of her.

Her surroundings were cleaner when regarded through the glass, and she could see the enchantments in the wood.  It seemed... skewed, almost—they lacked the purity of most enchanted objects she'd seen.  She'd have to spend more time picking it apart later.  Pity Jones wouldn't be letting her out of the brig for a while... she'd have liked to look at other parts of the ship, and see if the enchantments varied at all—if the curiously twisted nature of the magic in the brig was an anomaly or a trend.

Bill Turner had gone back to his corner, where he was sitting with an expression of confused joy.  Stella went over, and peered at him through the glass.  The oceanic detritus melted away, and she found herself looking at a man whose weathered, fleshy face was marked by grief.

"What are you doing?" he asked her.

"Seeing what the glass shows me."

He smiled a little; it made his face crinkle in a way she suspected it didn't do much anymore.  "What does it show you?"

"Right now?  You, as you once were."  Behind him, there came a woman, beautiful and slender with Will Turner's dark eyes and strong cheekbones.  Though there was much of his father in him, Will also took after his mother.  "What was her name?"

"Whose name?" Bill asked, though by the pain rising in his blue eyes that question did not need to be asked.

"William's mother.  The woman I see in the glass, behind you."

"Kate," came the quiet reply.

"She's very lovely."

"William has her eyes."

"Yes, he does."  The woman then vanished, and she saw him as he must have been under the Aztec Curse—a rotting skeleton with the same haunted, sorrowful blue eyes.  Recalling what she'd heard about the circumstances of Bill's undead life, she moved the glass and her line of sight down to his ankles, which were—sure enough—chained to a cannon.  "Interesting," she remarked, before spinning around to regard the door to the cell.  Perhaps the glass would show her another way out, so that she could go and look at the rest of the ship, while the crew slept?

"What does it show you now?"

"The enchantments on the ship, still.  No alternate exit, regrettably.  Still, it's all utterly fascinating.  I've never seen work like this before.  It's... well, quite beyond anything I've ever seen or done before," she replied absently, lowering the glass from her eye.  Using it for too long tended to give the people who were using it horrible headaches.

She made a few more notes in the blank book before placing it back in the trunk, closing the lid, tucking Isabella's glass back into her dress, and sitting on the trunk lid—it was the cleanest spot available.  "Hopefully this state of affairs will not last too terribly long, Mr. Turner.  Although I suppose there are worse... cell-mates," she remarked breezily.

Bill gazed at her as though he'd never seen anything quite like her.   He smiled faintly.  "You're right about that," he agreed.  "Aren't you afraid?"

"Of course," she replied.  "I'm not a fool.  I'm in an uncomfortable position between two men who wish me harm.  To escape the wrath of one, I must put myself in the power of the other. I shall need all my wits about me to survive, and fear would dull them, so I shan't feel it."

Indeed, she'd shoved her fear into the box in the back of her mind where she kept everything she didn't want to feel.  Her love for James was there, too, along with grief new and old.  But she had a nervous feeling that there wasn't much room left in that box, along with the foreboding that things would get much, much worse before they got better.

Bill smiled at her again, but this time it was with a patina of worry.  "You're very strong.  Be careful—Jones hates that in women."

"Jones hates all women, strong or not," Stella retorted.  "He's been forbidden to kill me—"

"That won't stop him from hurting you," Bill warned.  "You seem a sweet lass... I don't want to see you hurt."

Stella clenched her hands in her skirts.  "Then you had better close your eyes."


	30. Stella Conuriatii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which James Norrington throws a tantrum.

It was early November by the time that James Norrington made it back to Port Royal from his mission to polish the doorknobs.  He'd been gone for nearly a month, inspecting the varying parts of the fleet berthed in islands around Jamaica and seeing to the refitting and repair of the once-piratical ships.  Valuable work, but nothing he needed to see to himself.  He could've done just as well behind a desk in Port Royal.

Still, there was nothing for it, and James was glad to be home.  He would have quite a bit of work to do up at Fort Charles, having been away for so long.  And he wanted to see Stella.  He'd rather missed her, more than he'd expected to, with a quiet ache that grew stronger every day.  He wanted to see how she fared with pregnancy—would the child have quickened inside her, yet?  Would she have that happy, healthy, glowing look about her that so many pregnant women seemed to acquire?  At the very least, he expected that she would have a variety of witty, sarcastic things to say about the happenings in Port Royal.  Perhaps, if he were particularly lucky, Isaac Bell would be at sea, and he'd have Stella all to himself.

Unfortunately, James Norrington was not lucky.  Not only was the _Raven_ in port, but Stella was gone.

He noticed something off in the house the moment he stepped inside; it was... less breezy, and the air was quite still.  There was no faint scent of gardenia and allemanda, and the house itself was very, very quiet.  There was an ineffable something missing, but it didn't occur to him that anything other than a faint niggling in the back of his mind was wrong.

However, upon asking the housekeeper about the location of his wife, James was treated to an uncomfortable look and informed that Mrs. Norrington had left him a letter in her boudoir.

The faint niggling bloomed into a deep unease, and as James climbed the stairs he wondered what had gone wrong now.

Stella's rooms felt empty.  The air was still—the air in her rooms was never still.  He went to her dressing table and found the letter she left, and opened it with a feeling of foreboding.  Her delicate, spidery writing covered the page, but it was uneven, as though she was composing the missive in a great hurry.

_My dear James,_

_You are no doubt going to be very upset with me.  By now, I imagine you have returned home to discover my absence.  This was not precisely an absence of my choosing, but that does not follow that the destination was entirely displeasing.  Nevertheless, I would not have left if I did not think I had no other choice._

_Yester eve, after your departure, Lord Beckett came to the house.  He requested that I take a temporary posting on the_ Flying Dutchman _, as Davy Jones had proved himself an untrustworthy sort and in need of a minder.  Apparently, Beckett believed that the Kraken lingering in me would render Jones somewhat more kindly disposed towards me as opposed to anyone else.   I realise Beckett's reasoning is flimsy, but I do not wish to tempt fate and see what other calamity he would visit upon us should I defy him.  He is bound and determined to see us apart, and I am of a mood to oblige him, lest we suffer the fruits of his imagination once more._

_You would likely challenge my reasoning; you know full well of my fascination with that vessel.  I will not lie and say that Lord Beckett's request was unwelcome; there are worse places he could put me.  However, please believe that I would not have disregarded your preferences unless I did not feel that I had no other choice.  There is much to loose, and I cannot— we cannot—afford to aggravate him.  He has promised my safety (however much that is worth) and that I should be back in Port Royal by February and in time for my laying-in.  If he is true to his promises, every fortnight there will be a rendezvous with the _Dutchman _and a ship of the fleet.   I hope to see you during one of those rotations, for five months is a long time to be without you._

_My dear friend, please do not be too terribly vexed with me.  'What cannot be cured must be endured,' and this is simply another of Beckett's intrusions into our lives.  See to our brain-child in my absence, try not to let Isaac upset you, and I will do my best to remain as safe and well as I might._

_Until we meet again, I remain your affectionate friend and wife,_

_Stella_

The parchment crumpled as James' hands clenched involuntarily, too many emotions running through him to be calm.   He felt fury and fear and aggravated fondness... mostly, though, he felt angry.  Burning, impotent rage at the presumption of Lord Beckett and—admittedly, irrationally—at Stella as well.

She knew he didn't want her near that ship!  She knew!  James felt betrayed, as though she, like Lord Beckett, had gone over his head to get something she wanted.  Yes, Lord Beckett's orders were Lord Beckett's orders, but she should have told him to go to the devil!  He was her husband, his was the voice she vowed to obey, and anyway, he could take care of himself—what danger was he in now, anyway, now that the Kraken was dead?

Part of him knew this was unfair, that Beckett held more than enough power over the both them... but it was like the hurricane all over again.  James explicitly forbid Stella to do something, and Beckett went over his head and made her do it anyway.  And he was deeply afraid that, once again, the outcome of such orders would be a near-dead Stella.

And what in God's name did Beckett think he was doing, putting a pregnant lady on the _Flying Dutchman_?!  Jones hated women—especially Stella.  He'd seen the way Jones had looked at her, on the _Endeavour_ during the hurricane.  Apparently Stella hadn't—what was she  thinking, willingly putting herself in that thing's hands?  For such a clever, intelligent, terrifyingly shrewd woman she sometimes did incredibly stupid things.

There seemed to be surprisingly little thinking being done, in a general sense.  Was he the only man in the fleet who was disposed to use his brain?

James heaved a sigh and flopped back onto Stella's bed, breathing in the faint, lingering scent of Stella's gardenia-water and letting its fragrance calm him.  He wouldn't speak with Beckett until tomorrow, when he wasn't still fuming with frustrated fury.  After all, he wouldn't want the man to send him out to polish the doorknobs again—or worse, order him to remain on land.  He meant to go and see his wife the minute he found a ship that could take him.

* * *

 

The next morning, nearly the moment the sun was up, James was off to the offices of the East India Trading Company.  The soldiers let him through immediately, and he was ushered into Lord Beckett's office.

"Admiral Norrington," Beckett greeted mildly, focussed on the papers on his desk.  "I was expecting you earlier."

James paused.  "I beg your pardon?"

"You arrived yesterday evening, did you not?" Beckett returned.  "I assumed you would be here the moment you discovered Mrs. Norrington's absence."

"I thought it would be prudent to wait until my temper cooled," James replied icily.

"Mmm.  Quite sensible of you.  I do appreciate it.  Impassioned histrionics are hardly to my taste."

"I would like to ask what the blazes you were thinking, however," James added darkly.

Beckett finally looked up, and sat back in his chair.  "I was thinking that your wife is strong enough—dangerous enough—to give Davy Jones pause.  When added to the Kraken lingering in her... hair... I felt that she had the best chance of moderating his behaviour," he explained calmly.

"I'm sorry, did you somehow miss the seething hatred with which Jones regards the both of us?" James asked incredulously.

"He hates everyone," Beckett dismissed, turning back to his papers.

"But her most of all—it was she who thwarted him, during the hurricane... did you think he would forget that?  Or forgive her for it?" James demanded.  "Even beside the fact that she's a hated woman, she's also my wife, and we all know he despises me.  What could have possibly made you think this was a good idea?"

"Honestly?  I thought that she was one of the only people both cunning enough to match wits with Jones and willing to actually be there," Beckett replied, sitting back and looking back at him.

"'Willing'?" James repeated disbelievingly.

"She went, didn't she?"

"Because you ordered her to!"

"That's willing, after a fashion," Beckett noted.

"No, it's not.  When will she return home?" James demanded.

"When I can be assured that Davy Jones in under control."

"And what provisions have you made for her safety?"

"Jones knows not to lay a hand on her.  Every two weeks a ship meets with the _Dutchman_.  Stella reports and provides her strings, and the captain of the ship supplies her with provisions and checks that she is in good health."

"I want to be present at the next rotation.  I want to see for myself."

Beckett paused, and regarded James for a moment, perhaps weighing his likelihood to make trouble on the _Dutchman_ should he find Stella in peril, versus the stink he would definitely raise if Beckett forbid him to see her.  Apparently deciding that there was a better chance for avoiding an unpleasant scene at sea, given the slight possibility that Jones was treating Stella well, as opposed to the definite eventuality of an outburst on land, Beckett gave him a curt nod.  "Very well.  I trust you can see to the arrangements?"

"Of course."

"Then go to it, Admiral," Beckett dismissed.  "But mind me, Norrington: you're not to take her off that ship until I say."

"If I find her unsafe—"

"You'll tell me, and I will chastise Jones."

"If you have to chastise him, does it not imply that Stella is an inadequate minder, and should be replaced?" James inquired tartly.

Beckett gave him a sour look, and turned pointedly back to his papers.  "Give Stella my regards."

James whirled on his heel and stormed out.  Obviously, Beckett had no real reason to keep Stella on the _Dutchman_ aside from his desire to keep her away from her family, and the man's own hatred for her.

_Oh yes—if my logic destroys your pathetic fallacy, simply ignore it,_ he fumed.  _Hang you, and hang your orders, Beckett.  If she's suffering, I'm taking her away.  I'll hide her if I must, but if she's miserable... if she's miserable because of his commands, I'll kill him._

* * *

 

When he arrived back home, Isaac Bell was waiting for him in the parlour.  The minute he was informed of this, James buried his face in his hands and groaned.  There was no situation so bad that his brother-in-law couldn't make it worse.

He straightened immediately—Stella had asked that he try to get along with her brother—and went into the parlour.  "Captain Bell," he greeted tiredly.  "Stella's not here."

"I know that," Isaac retorted grumpily.  "I was with her when Beckett informed her of her next posting.  How could you let—"

"Spare me, Isaac," James snapped.  "My hands have been very thoroughly tied, and I'm just as unhappy as you are.  And," he added grimly, "if we're going to be pointing fingers... you say you were there when she left?  Why did you let her go?  Why didn't you stop her?"

"Stop Stelly when she's got her mind set on something?"  Isaac let out a bark of laughter.  "That's like trying to stop a hurricane.  She's a force of nature."

"And so is Lord Beckett," James pointed out darkly.  "Worse, he's a force of nature with an axe over all our necks, so kindly spare me the recriminations for not performing a duty which you neglected yourself!"

Isaac's expression was mutinous, but then he sighed and threw himself into one of the settees.  "Fine, so we'll just agree that we're both incompetent at protecting Stella from that awful clotpoll and get on with it," he suggested glumly.  "I didn't actually come here to fight with you, but Stelly wanted me to talk to you about the... er 'Greek Fire'."

"Greek Fire?" James repeated blankly.

"She figured that we needed a euphemism for 'The Conspiracy', and that was the best we came up with," Isaac shrugged.  "She said we should come up with something and get in the habit of using it easily and discreetly before Mercer gets back from Singapore."

"Good thinking," James agreed absently.  "Mercer has a revolting talent for sniffing out these sorts of things... no sense in making him overtly suspicious.  Why Greek Fire, though?"

"Er... childhood hijinks."

James was about to arch an eyebrow and wonder sardonically how a mythical offensive weapon could possibly be connected to any childhood hijinks when the butler entered and announced Captain Groves.

"Show him in," James said, and thanked the Lord for Theodore's good timing.  He didn't know how long this _entente cordiale_ between Isaac and himself would last, but previous encounters had shown that it was better that James and Isaac not be left alone together.

"James, Captain Bell," Groves greeted once he was shown into the parlour.  "I suppose you know already?"

"About Mrs. Norrington's current location?" James supplied dourly.  "Yes, I've had that displeasure."

"I am sorry, James," Theodore apologised.  "She was brought out there on my own ship... there was nothing I could do—not with Beckett present and watching us the entire way."

"It's all right, Theo," James assured him.  "It seems all the men in her life are thoroughly incapable of protecting her from Lord Beckett's whims."

"What the devil is he thinking, putting a gentlewoman with child on that... that floating hell?" Theodore grumbled.

"Something I have recently wondered myself."

"His judgement is incredibly faulty where my sister is concerned," Isaac remarked sourly.

"That would be because he hates her," James offered sarcastically.  "Hatred does tend to impair one's judgement."  He took a deep breath.  "I'll be going to see her with the next ship that makes a rendezvous with the _Dutchman_.  Depending on how I find her, I will act accordingly.  Until then, the best we can do is see to the Greek Fire.  I believe the only way to keep her safe from Beckett is to limit the amount of power he has at his disposal."

"Greek Fire?" asked Theodore, looking confused.

So they explained things to him, and the three officers spent the rest of the day sorting out their conspiracy in the Norrington's parlour—it was the safest place to do so, since Stella had placed spells to thwart eavesdroppers the minute she got into the house.  They talked about using the euphemism of Greek Fire as a code as well; Isaac suggested that they pretend that Stella was once again trying to concoct that mythical substance, and her pretend recipes could be used as a code—"She tried 25 ounces of sulphur and 15 spoons of saltpetre," was his example, with the numbers standing for captains or ships or whatever was needful at the time.  James sardonically agreed that anyone acquainted with Stella's damnable curiosity would easily believe her capable of attempting to make Greek Fire and using anything and everything to accomplish it.  They could probably say she was using butter and people would believe it.

...James wasn't bitter.  Not at all.

An awkward silence descended after that, until the ever-tactful Theodore suggested that they concoct some kind of symbol—perhaps a Greek letter or two, since their code was Greek Fire?—so that members of the conspiracy would be able to discern each other.  Isaac was dubious—if everyone suddenly started sporting Greek letters, wouldn't that be a massive sign that they had a secret, and invite an investigation they didn't want?  The two of them went back and forth for a bit, before James stepped in and indulgently ordered that they'd discuss it later.

There was a pang in his heart as he intervened; Theodore had debated with Andrew just like that, once upon at time, and he'd always broken up their little repartees in the same tone, once he got tired of listening to them go around and around.  He still missed him—Andrew Gillette, that was—with a hollow sort of ache.  He'd been a dear friend for years, and James still regretted the circumstances of his death.  He probably always would.

Putting the ache away (and resolutely shoving away any likeness between his late, dear friend and his hated brother-in-law), he suggested that they make a list of every captain in the fleet that was already on their side (there were about 25, by this point).  They then discussed who they thought would be amenable, and how they should go about converting them now that Mrs. Norrington's quicksilver tongue was ensconced on the _Flying Dutchman_.

Theodore pointed out that merely mentioning her absence would be enough for many of the captains; Beckett's obvious antipathy for the Admiral's wife had been raising many eyebrows amongst the sailors in the fleet, and his dubious decisions where Mrs. Norrington was concerned would surely fuel much outrage among the fleet.  After all, Groves noted, if the Admiral's wife could be sent away on the flimsiest of pretexts, their own families were at risk as well.  That was the sort of thing that hit a man right where he lived.

"You'd think this would occur to him," Isaac remarked, after Theodore had finished his theory.  "Beckett, I mean."

"He thinks he's too powerful to be bothered by the disapprobation of his subordinates," James grumbled.

"Surely he doesn't think that he is immune to... well, to exactly what we're doing?" Theodore wondered sheepishly.

"I believe it is usually Mr. Mercer who deals with these sorts of things, and he does so quickly, brutally, and finally," James replied darkly.  "It is only due to his absence that we are getting away with it.  We will have to be much, much more discreet when he returns."

"That's what Stelly said, before she left," Isaac agreed.  The tightness around his mouth indicated that he was not unaware of his accord with the man who had married his sister.  "We have to have gone fully to ground by the time he returns."

"Isn't that a little too... he is just one man, isn't he?" Theodore asked confusedly.

"I don't think so," James replied.  "Stella... has not said outright, but dropped enough hints to lead me to believe that Mr. Mercer is not entirely human."

"Oh."  Theodore had gone a bit pale.  "James, I hope you don't mind me saying this, but things have gotten dashed strange since you returned to Port Royal," he said, clearly still a bit bewildered.

James chuckled wryly.  "One thing I've learned, Theo, is that things have always been dashed strange," he remarked honestly, sitting back and crossing his hands over his stomach.  "The only difference is that now we're more willing to notice."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I kind of liked this chapter—it's starting something rolling that I really wanted to see in the actual films. I really wanted there to be someone who realised that Lord Beckett was off his rocker and objected morally to what he was up to. And I really, really wanted it to be Norrington. I just felt that his character got shafted—he didn't really serve any purpose but to get Elizabeth out and die nobly. I get the whole redemption arc, but I thought it would've been better if he had actually needed to do something other than die for it._
> 
> _But that just might be because I like him so much. ;D_
> 
> I still think that's the case, mind you.


	31. Stella Perpessii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stella is unpleasantly surprised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's still 2008.
> 
> _AIEEE! I’m in China!_
> 
> _Yes, I am writing to you now from Yangzhou, China. Here I am, in a nice little flat (comprised of two rooms, one bathroom, and no kitchen) in the middle of a school, with one television, two sinks, and dubious internet access. I get an office, though._
> 
> _China is... all right, I guess. There was a lot more English around in Shanghai than there is here, so it's a little scarier here, because I don't speak any Chinese. (I'm learning bits and pieces as I go, though. Got a couple of verbs... but nothing to use them with. My vocabulary is nonexistent. Except that I can say "dumpling") There's just as many weird looks, though, and it seems to be stinking hot wherever I go. Although it's been cooling down recently—thank God, 'cos none of the classrooms have AC._
> 
> _And yep, I've been teaching. I am a teacher, now. Eek! I teach 2nd grade. My students (holy Jesus, I have students) know a little English, but not much. They still babble at me in Chinese, and I return in English (or sometimes I say, in very awful Chinese, that I don't understand). We've mostly been reviewing things they learned last year. Some of the wee ones are totally adorable, and love to have your attention, and some of them are little bastards. I think that's the usual with most elementary school students. But does it count as infanticide if the kid's not yours?_
> 
> _Anyway, sorry for the wait. For one, I was in China, and everything was so new and cool. And for another, teaching is a lot more exhausting than I'd thought—probably because the kids are so young. Little founts of energy, the lot of them. And they produce lots of germs and stuff. I had a cold for a while._
> 
> _Right! Here is the next chapter! Thanks to all the reviewers who reminded me about it! I hope you all enjoy it—the latter part of it was written in China! Oooh, ahhh._
> 
> I hated teaching, which is why I'm not a teacher now. I also rather disliked China, which is why I'm not in China now. ;)

Stella was beginning to fray.

It was, perhaps, inevitable; she had been imprisoned on the _Flying Dutchman_ for four weeks and five days, now, and Davy Jones had been hammering at her composure for three weeks and five days.  She had never before been the target of such unrelenting malice.

Her first week had been undisturbed by anything (except for the dreams that always hounded her after she went into the river, of course.  She was often awakened by images of Tia dissolving into a mass of crabs, or of dying in a massive conflagration, or (worst of all) of James being stabbed and dying alone at the rail of the _Dutchman_ ).  But aside from that, she had been left to herself in the brig, with nothing more than a dearth of provisions to vex her.  Thank heavens she'd thought to bring some of her own food, or she would have been quite hungry that first week.  (Jones fed her, of course—he was under orders—but the fare was nothing she was terribly inclined to eat.  Raw fish was not a favourite of hers.)

Still, compared to what came after, the first week was a paradise.  Yes, the accommodations were substandard; she was almost constantly chilled and the bunk she slept on at night was hard and uncomfortable.  Yes, it was cold and dirty and she felt unclean constantly.  Yes, she was horribly seasick for the first few days.  And yes, it was awkward to share space with a man she wasn't married to, that she had only just met, who had been a pirate, and who had barnacles sprouting on his face.  But she'd been left alone to study the ship to her heart's content, which was just what she wanted.

She had picked the entire brig apart, and desperately wanted to go elsewhere and see if her theories were correct.  She thought that there were two people involved in the enchanting of the ship (if you could call them "people"): the personage who had done the original spell-castings (she was beginning to think it was perhaps an old immortal of some kind) and the personage (probably Davy Jones) who had made slight alterations to the originals.  Whether or not he had done the same outside of the brig was anyone's guess.

She had also asked many questions of Bootstrap Bill Turner, who seemed quite happy to speak to her of anything and everything she asked him.  He was, Stella noted, quite starved for company—he'd have to be, to put up with her impertinent inquiries.

 

_"What was it like, to swear yourself to Davy Jones?" she asked him._

_"Relief," Bill replied, shrugging a little.  He had cleared much of the coral and other detritus off the bunk in the cell for her, and insisted that she take it.  He'd be fine on the floor, he said.  Stella appreciated his chivalry, even if she'd been surprised by it.  She did not generally expect manners from pirates.  "I'd been chained to a cannon and thrown overboard.  It wasn't pleasant, under all that water."_

_"I can't imagine," Stella murmured, shuddering a little.  As a child, she'd been terrified of drowning—probably an effect of her affinity with the air.  As an adult, she hadn't much cared for submerging herself.  Being trapped leagues under the water was as close to hell as she could conceive.  "But what did you feel?  Anything?"_

_Bill shrugged again.  "Did I notice as I sold my soul away?  No.  I was under a curse at the time and frantic to escape the weight of the water... I couldn't feel anything but desperation."_

_"The famed Aztec curse," Stella murmured._

_"You know about that?" Bill asked, surprised._

_"Yes.  Hector Barbossa came often to my mother and I, seeking out the lost medallions.  We could find them for him, you see, sometimes.  They did tend to move," she remarked wryly, remembering.  "Barbossa visited often, especially in the later years of the curse,.  He could not, for the life—or unlife—of him, find that last medallion.  Neither could I."_

_Something closed down behind Bill's blue eyes.  "That was the one I sent to William."_

_Something slid into place in Stella's mind.  "That must be why I could never find it," she said triumphantly.  "It bothered me terribly—I should have been able to.  But I couldn't, because you protected him."_

_Bill looked confused.  "I was sitting at the bottom of the ocean—and then I was here.  How could I have protected him?"_

_Stella shrugged.  "You were—are—his father.  You loved him.  And you didn't want Barbossa to find him.  That has a power all its own—a power often stronger than the one I wield," she explained simply.  "However, I have yet to discern how I compare to Davy Jones.  Now, he... he has something I can't quite name," she remarked thoughtfully._

_"He has no heart," Bill muttered savagely._

_"Yes, but we already knew that," Stella pointed out tartly.  "And we have wandered quite far from my original inquiry.  I mean to study this ship, you see.  What I want to know is—"_

_"He asks 'em, usually, if they fear death," Bill interrupted dully.  "We come up under a ship where the crew are dead or dying, and they haven't moved on yet.  Jones, he asks 'em if they fear death.  They say no, over they go to their final... whatever.  They say yes, they're offered a place on the crew.  S'a chance to delay judgement—they can serve one-hundred years on this ship and forestall the hereafter.  And eventually they start looking like this," he said, spreading his arms.  "Start becoming part of the ship.  Once you swear an oath to the_ Dutchman _, there's no leaving it.  And you start loosing your past, your memories, and your humanity a little at a time, until you're nothing but part of the ship.  Part of the crew, part of the ship," he finished, with a bitter smile._

_Stella had been listening, spellbound.  Once he finished, she grabbed her blank book (though, not so blank, now), and a flood of questions rushed forth.  "Does that mean he collects souls?  What about the living—can they swear an oath as well, or do they need be dead?  What is the oath?  If a living person were to swear it, would they be as good as dead?  Why do you loose your memories—is it simply disconnection from the life you once had, or is it something more insidious?  How is it that Jones can delay the inevitable with regards to the dead?  Why can't you leave the ship—what happens if you try to desert?  Are you actually dead?  Beckett holds the crew back with guns—is that futile? What happens if you're shot?  Is your death the reason you... er, collect and retain the attributes of a variety of marine life?  What do you mean 'part of the crew, part of the ship'?"  As she spoke the words, her skin prickled—like someone had walked over her grave.  She shook the sensation off, and finished with, "Are you dead?"_

_Bill, however, was looking at her with an expression that was part incredulity, part indulgent amusement, and part discomfiture.  "Curiosity killed the cat, Mrs. Norrington," was all he said._

_"Then thank heavens I'm not a cat, Mr. Turner," she retorted archly._

_The former pirate chuckled a little, and scratched at the barnacles sprouting from his cheekbones.  "I don't know if I qualify as dead... I was cursed when I joined the crew.  I never actually died," he admitted, and he appeared quite uneasy to be contemplating his mortality (or lack thereof)._

_"I suppose that is comforting—I don't think I should like to share my accommodations with an animate corpse," Stella remarked briskly, making a notation in her book.  "Do you know anything else you can tell me?"_

_"I have no idea why Jones does what he does, or how he does it.  Swearing an oath to the Dutchman is as easy as telling Jones you'll serve.  I don't know why we loose our memories—we just... do," Bill began to reply, looking very hopeless and unhappy.  "We can't leave because there's nowhere we can go—not once has Jones given up something he thinks of as his.  And if he withdraws his magics from us, we become as we were before we joined: dead.  We can feel pain, but mortal wounds for anyone else will just keep us down for a while.  I don't know why we start looking like this—" he gestured to the starfish on his face, "but we do, the longer we stay here, until we've completely fused with the ship.  That's what I meant by 'part of the crew, part of the ship.'"_

_Strange, no matter how many times she heard that phrase, it always seemed to make her skin prickle.  However, if it meant anything, the significance of it would become clear in time, at which point she could deal with it.  Until then, it was a nameless premonition, and Stella had little use for those; prophesy was not her gift.  She finished her notes, and resolutely closed the book.  "Thank you for your contribution, Mr. Turner.  I'm sure future generations of my children will thank you," she said primly._

_The amused look was back on his face, and it seemed to make him younger and more human; perhaps it did, perhaps .  "Mrs. Norrington, you are, by far, the strangest lady I've ever met in all my life," he announced._

_"Funny, my husband says the same thing," Stella replied dryly._

 

Her husband.  She missed him desperately, with a gnawing ache that both pained and infuriated her.  However, she used her solitude (broken only by Bill) to start regaining control.  During her one-week respite, she was able to start forcing the feelings and the sensations they inspired back into the box at the back of her mind—it was time consuming and required much of her concentration, but it was worth it when her thoughts ceased to turn in his direction every idle moment she had.

The same could not be said for Bill, of course.  Not that he was always thinking about James Norrington—because he wasn't—but his thoughts were constantly, relentlessly, and tediously focussed on his son.  It occasionally made conversation stilted and awkward, since Stella knew little about Will Turner (and was inclined to dislike him, anyway, for the injuries he had visited upon her husband).

But Bill always asked.

 

_"Tell me about William," he asked her one evening—Stella believed it was her third on the_ Dutchman.  _Stella had already eaten her meagre meal of a boiled egg, a slice of bread, and some preserved spinach, and they were sitting quietly in the gloom of their cell._

_"I don't know very much about him," Stella demurred, adjusting her cloak around her shoulders.  "I only ever met him three times... and one of those times I was a ghost."_

_Bill—being a twice-cursed pirate currently occupying the brig of the_ Flying Dutchman _—barely blinked at the last statement, and continued worrying at his original thought.  "Tell me about the first time you met him, then?" he asked, turning limpid blue eyes in her direction.  "Please?"_

_And of course she couldn't refuse him.  Not only was she interested in keeping the peace—they were both locked in here together for an indeterminate amount of time, after all, and it would be better if they got on well—but he was so very desperate (and pathetic)._

_So Stella sighed, and began.  "I met William Turner the Younger one evening when he was brought to my Tortugan residence by one Jack Sparrow.  We were in company for all of a half-hour, during which he said two things to me.  One was his name, and the other was 'I beg your pardon'."_

_"What did you think of him?" Bill asked, apparently so desperate for knowledge of his son that he would do anything to hear more about him, including attempting to milk some kind of significance of their brief meeting._

_Stella swiftly thought of a way to phrase this tactfully. She couldn't very well say to his doting father, 'I thought he was callow and naïve and the only thing I found interesting about him was the air of his unknown, inevitable fate'.  Instead, she said, rather lamely, "He has a good heart."  This was technically true._

_Bill smiled fondly.  "He does, doesn't he?  He's a good lad," he murmured.  "A fine lad."_

_Stella had to bite her lip at that.  She supposed, from Bill's point of view, Will Turner was a fine lad.  And he was a decent sort of man—honest, honourable, courageous, strong, and courteous.  But he had hurt James—not so terribly as Elizabeth, but Will Turner had helped the Swann girl hurt James Norrington, and therefore Stella was automatically disinclined to like him._

_Thankfully, Bill was unobservant and took no notice of her less than enthusiastic response to his queries, and focussed his eyes back on her.  "What about the second time you met him?"_

_Stella stifled a sigh.  "The second I encountered your son was when he came to me in the hopes of locating Jack Sparrow..."  As she narrated the tale of her second meeting with William Turner, she thought back to that afternoon, and her ominous presentiment that her peaceful existence was about to end.  And indeed Will Turner had been the harbinger of the dangerous and unhappy circumstances she was currently enduring. She recalled knowing that she—and James—were tangled in the net that Beckett was weaving; however, she hadn't then known how truly trapped they were, and what Beckett would do to them once he had them in his power._

_She wondered, idly, if she had known then what she knew now—knew of the pain and danger and the horrible, frightening emotion that awaited her—if she would have agreed to marry James and leave Tortuga.  Yes, she had hated it there, but at least it was safe._

_The narrative finished on a slightly melancholy note.  "Young Mr. Turner then left with the information he came for, and after set off in search of that most wayward captain.  I remained on Tortuga, waiting for the change I knew was coming. If only I had known then what I know now, perhaps I would not have been so eager to welcome those changes," she finished wistfully.  "Life became so very dangerous."_

_Bill nodded sympathetically, but kept going back to his original topic.  "What about the third time you met William?" he pressed._

_Had she not been attempting to keep their interactions amiable, Stella would have rolled her eyes.  Bill was certainly single-minded, and also unable to pick up on the subtle hints that indicated she wished to change the subject.  But he was also so very pathetic, which was why Stella bit her tongue and continued._

_"The third time I met Mr. Turner was after I possessed the Kraken in a hurricane.  The Kraken was killed while I was still possessing her, and I was catapulted out across the ocean in spirit form.  I was drawn to a ship upon which were Tia Dalma, a powerful friend of mine, and your son, among others.  I floated through the floor, gave the inhabitants of the ship a fright, said some truthful things to Elizabeth Swann, and was shooed back to my body by Tia," Stella recited concisely.  "Your son and I exchanged no words, that time."_

_"That's how you know he's still alive," Bill realised.  "You saw him on that ship, during the hurricane."_

_"I did.  I also received word of his presence in Singapore not one week ago."  This was a slight stretch, but Stella had seen Elizabeth Swann in Singapore, and God knew that Will Turner would follow wherever that lady went._

_Bill smiled, and the happiness that surrounded him almost made up for having to talk about Will Turner.  "What do you suppose he's doing?"_

_"Avoiding Beckett, if he's got any sense," Stella replied swiftly, in a tone of voice that indicated she had no further thoughts.  She then changed the subject onto the effect of Beckett on the Dutchman's usual modus operandi, and they wiled away the rest of the evening._

_But then two evenings later, Bill turned to her and asked, without artifice or any seeming recollection of the previous night, "Tell me about William?"_

_Stella could hardly explain why she suddenly felt such a terrible foreboding underneath the confusion._

 

Yes, her first week on the _Dutchman_ had truly been an idyllic time.

Pity it all went to hell shortly thereafter.

It began subtly.  On her eighth day, she was sitting in the brig with Bootstrap (of course, where else was she going to be?) and prodding at the ship with her mind (a simplistic description, but she couldn't think of any better way to put it when Bill asked her what she was doing).  Then suddenly, something happened, and the tone of her time on the ship began to change.

 

_Stella returned to herself abruptly; the feel of the ship had changed. Someone else's will—probably the Captain's—was spreading through the galleon, making it move in ways ships usually didn't move.  She opened her eyes to discover that the floor was tilting downward at an angle that implied... well, that they were about to go below the ocean.  This hypothesis was borne out by the water she could see welling up from both the front of the ship and from the floor._

_She was off the bunk in a flash, an involuntary scream flying from her lips.  Bill was at her side in an instant.  "What's happening?" she demanded, watching in horror as the water continued to rise._

_"We're going under water," Bill replied, grasping her shoulders nervously._

_Stella blanched.  She clung to Bill and whimpered a bit as the water washed over her feet.  She had always been terrified of drowning; it was the only other thing besides love she could definitively say she was afraid of.  To be trapped, underwater, without any air or wind or any way to save herself..._

_The water was up above her knees, now, saturating her skirts, and she was breathing quickly, in frightened gasps.  She backed up as far from the rising water that she could, but she hit the cell bars and could go no further, even as the water hit her waist.  Bill had gone to the door, and was shouting up to anyone who could hear, reminding them that there was a lady who needed to breathe down here._

_No one heard him._

_Stella clung to the bars with a white-knuckled grip; the water was up to her neck, now, and she met Bill's hopeless blue eyes with what must surely be an expression of sheer terror.  She noted, in a detached part of her mind, that her trunk was floating up at her eye-level.  At least it was airtight... her notes would survive, although she and her unborn child wouldn't.  She wished that she'd thought to write something to James in the event of her death._

_She also hoped that Davy Jones would catch absolute hell for this._

_Terrified, as the water began to rise over her head, Stella let go her control over her hair.  (She hadn't let it loose previously, having not yet decided to trust Bill.  He could have, after all, been planted by Jones, and she didn't want him to know about her hair... yet.)  Her Kraken-infested tresses buoyed her up to the shrinking pocket of air at the top of the cell, and she was able to get a few desperate gasps in before all the air was gone._

_The salt water burned her eyes, and she shut them tightly.  She didn't want the last thing she saw to be the brig of the_ Flying Dutchman _.  So she shut her eyes, and called up an image of James, and wished this wasn't happening.  She felt arms wrap around her, and she pretended it was James instead of Bill as the burning in her lungs became too much, and she reflexively inhaled._

_It hurt._

_Her worst nightmare was coming true.  She thought she'd conquered her fear of drowning, but it was still there, in the back of her mind.  And now it was happening.  She kept trying to take in air, but there was none to take, and she began to thrash around in Bill's embrace.  A distant part of her mind realised that her death was approaching at a rather rapid clip, and she felt... cheated.  She felt cheated and angry and immeasurably sad.  Was this it?  Was this all she was to have?  What about her baby?  The child never even had a chance to draw breath.  And now she never would._

_..._

_She must have blacked out—Stella didn't really recall.  But she didn't die._

_Eventually she came to, coughing up sea water.  Rough, strong limbs turned her over, and she retched miserably onto the deck, gasping in air to her lungs which still ached and seized.  She was disoriented and hurting and trembling from remembered fear, her hair was hanging in her face and tangled around her arms, her dress was sodden and added another ten pounds to her frame, and her eyes and throat were stinging.  It was, by far, the worst she had ever felt in all her life._

_And, as if things weren't awful enough, the next-to-last voice she wanted hear came to her ears.  "My apologies, ma'am.  I'd forgotten ye were here."_

_Stella looked up to see Davy Jones standing at the door of the cell, smirking at her, surrounded by the leering members of the crew.  She coughed once more, and straightened a bit.  Bill was still hovering over her, stroking her back soothingly and wiping her hair away from her skin.  When she extended a hand, he helped her up and steadied her on her feet.  Her hair was writhing around her arms; her control had been shredded by the events of the last few minutes, and at this point she was concentrating too much on regulating her breathing to bother controlling her hair._

_"I'd appreciate it if you'd remember in the future," Stella eventually replied to Davy Jones, her voice as hoarse as a crow and as rough as sandpaper.  "Any more of these incidents shall kill me stone dead."_

_Inwardly, she was seething._ He did that on purpose _, she thought bitterly.  And Jones wasn't even trying that hard to hide it; as he showed her up to the main deck and into the one airtight room on the ship, he was grinning viciously and not even bothering to hide it, his electric blue eyes were amused, and his betentacled beard was writhing merrily.  (His beard really did move like her hair... or vice versa, she supposed.  Although his tentacles were more active than her hair.)_

_"Here's the room, wench," Jones said dismissively.  "Stay here 'till I let ye out."  He smiled unpleasantly.  "T'wouldn't do for ye to open the door under the water, or walk out into battle."_

_"It's impossible to open the door of an airtight room underwater," Stella replied, equally dismissive and very scornful.  "And I daresay I'd notice the sound of the cannons and have the sense to stay hidden."_

_Jones snorted—a very, very strange sound, given that his nose (or equivalent thereof) extended off his left cheekbone.  "I never assume ennathin' about women and their lack of sense."_

_Stella sniffed in return.  "And I suppose I've been taught something about assumptions of my own: never assume that the captain remembers everything that's on his own ship," she sniped sharply._

_The Captain just smiled poisonously.  "I remember everything about my ship," was all he said, before he slammed the door in her face._

_Stella fumed; he'd gotten the last word.  It had been years since somebody else had gotten the last word in a conversation when she wasn't inclined to let them have it._

_However, not being of a temperament to lament that which she could not change (and which, in the grand scheme of things, didn't actually matter anyway), Stella took advantage of her soiree outside of the brig, took Isabella's glass from the string around her neck, and began to peer at her surroundings._

_They were the same as in the brig.  Someone—something—had altered the original enchantments._

 

That had been the first time she'd been able to see any part of the ship outside the brig since she arrived.  But it wasn't the last.  Davy Jones began to step up his campaign.

He began to send for her.  Stella would be going about her daily business, pursuing her studies or making wind-strings for Beckett, when she'd hear heavy steps on the stairs, and some monstrosity would appear and "escort" her from her cell and up onto deck.  The crew were not gentle with her; she was collecting quite the assortment of bruises on her arms (from their rough grips) and her shins (from tripping and falling due to their shoves, and her own lack of skill on a ship).

Depending on his fancy, or what was available at the time, Jones would have her brought to his cabin for conversation, or out to the deck.  The conversations were always strange and hostile...

 

_"With child, are ye?" Jones asked abruptly, the minute she stepped over the threshold into his cabin._

_"How could you tell?" Stella asked sarcastically.  Given that she was so small and slim, she had begun to show quite early.  And given that she had brought her ragged Tortuga dresses as attire onto the Dutchman, which were not altered for her pregnancy and thus quite tight around her middle where she was beginning to swell, it was plain to anyone who cared to look that she was with child._

_"Is it the Admiral's?" Jones asked, raising his... she supposed it was a brow, suggestively._

_Stella's pale cheeks flushed angrily.  "Yes, of course it's his," she replied stiffly._

_"Mmm," said Jones noncommittally, eyeing her curiously.  "I can never tell with women.  And now he's put you here... makes you think he wants you out of the way.  Only reason a man wants his pregnant wife out of the way is if he's looking to get rid of her... if he knows the sprog's not his."_

_"I don't appreciate your insinuations," Stella snapped, clenching her fists in her damp skirts. She knew Jones was digging for information, but there was no harm in laying things out as they were. "Admiral Norrington had absolutely nothing to do with my placement here.  He didn't even know.  If you want blame someone for my intrusion onto your ship, blame Lord Beckett.  He was the only who put me here.  I daresay my husband will be most upset when he discovers the state of things, he's not trying to put me away, and he knows full well this child is his."  A swift smile danced across his lips.  "I do wish I could have seen his reaction to discovering that Beckett was responsible for my absence at home.  I imagine he was magnificent."_

_Jones' blue eyes were still on her, as if he could ferret out her secrets just by looking at her._

_It suddenly occurred to Stella that she didn't know, for a fact, that he couldn't.  After all, she was quite good at assessing a person and their inner secrets at one glance; there was nothing to say Jones couldn't do the same.  The amount of other magical people she'd encountered in her life could be counted on one hand, so she hadn't thought she'd ever need to guard herself._

_She suddenly felt ill.  Could he straight into her, like she saw straight into others?  Did he know all her secrets, know what she kept in that box at the back of her mind, all her fear and grief and anger and love laid bare for him to see?_

_...She suddenly felt very sorry for everyone she'd ever dug secrets from._

_However, she kept her face impassive—if Jones was looking through her, there was nothing she could do to stop him—and simply folded her hands and waited._

_"And why, I wonder, did Beckett want you here?" the squid-man asked after a moment._

_" That is a very long story, Captain Jones," Stella replied tartly._

_"You'll tell it to me later—I'm sick of lookin' at you now.  Away with ye!" he commanded, waving his claw at her and dismissing her._

_Stella clenched her jaw—he had that saw-toothed bo'sun of his to drag her painfully up to his cabin for a conversation that didn't even last ten minutes?_

_Of course, she understood—she knew full well that his attempt to drown her was the first sally in what would surely be a drawn-out war.  This conversation, however, was different; they were feeling each other out.  Jones was looking for her soft spots (and of course, her most sensitive one was the plainest to see) and Stella was now faced with the unenviable position of having to prepare herself for defence._

_She fumed as she was shoved back down into the brig.  Her world had been turned upside-down, and she didn't like it._

 

...and she was always on her toes.

 

_"How long have you been married?"_

_Once again, Jones greeted her with a highly impudent question the minute she stepped inside.  Stella frowned, and replied sarcastically, "I'm quite well, Captain, thank you for asking."_

_Jones snorted—a curiously wet sound that made her want to cringe.  "If I cared about how you were doing, I would have asked," he said curtly, biting off the words sharply.  "How long have you been married?"_

_"Almost five months," Stella replied, after a long pause._

_"How long have you been with child?"_

_She rolled her eyes.  "Almost five months.  Kindly keep your insinuations to yourself," she added, pre-empting whatever it was he was going to suggest.  "Not that it's any of your business, but James and I were married on a Friday, and I conceived on a Sunday."_

_Jones was smirking.  "The Admiral works fast," he sniggered._

_Stella sighed irritably.  "Did you need something specific, Captain, or did you simply bring me here to ask me impolite questions and make schoolboy jokes?" she inquired acidly._

_He shrugged a little.  "I'm just trying to sort you out," he said, smiling thinly at her, though his electric blue eyes were sharp.  "How long has your hair been like that?"_

_So he did remember that.  Stella felt a slight pang of regret that she wasn't able to hide that ability for longer, but she hadn't been in any state for rational thought.  She tossed the hair in question over her shoulder, and replied saucily, "I think you know how long."_

_His blue eyes got even more intense.  "So she's not all gone, then," he murmured, almost to himself._

_"The Kraken?  No, but this—" gesturing to her hair, "is all that's left."  She smiled thinly.  "That must gall."_

_He sneered at her.  "It does.  Now, what is Beckett to you?"_

_"A threat and an annoyance," Stella replied instantly._

_"Nothing more?"_

_"No," she answered, though her mind cast back to that offer of marriage the first night they met..._

_Apparently it showed in her eyes, or in some other visible aspect of herself, since Jones immediately riposted with, "You're lying."_

_"Mmm... perhaps I am," she agreed mildly.  "But what passes between Lord Beckett and I is none of your business."_

_"He hates you," Jones surmised correctly._

_"Yes."  There was no point in denying it—not when any fool could see it was true._

_"Sometimes," he said slowly, as if the words were coming from a deep part of him, "love and hate are so close you can't tell one from the other.  Sometimes, you hate the one you love."_

_He was speaking from personal experience—Stella knew that, sure as she knew that her hair was black.  He was speaking of the woman he had loved so much—hated so much, in the end—that he preferred to cut out his heart than to continue feeling as he did.  And if the emotions showing on his face were but an echo of the real sensations, Stella wondered what they would be like if he had his heart inside his chest._

_Suddenly, Jones snapped back to himself, and snarled once he realised she was still standing there.  "Get back to the brig!" he roared.  "I'll have nothing of you and your kind, harridan!  Maccus!  Take this creature back to where she belongs!"_

_Stella was dragged back to the big by the hammerheaded construct, and before she'd even reached her makeshift home she heard the ship flooded with intense organ music._

_As the door clanged shut behind her and the hammerhead-man disappeared back above, Bill emerged from the shadows of the brig.  "Jones is in a rare temper," he remarked._

_"The music?" Stella surmised._

_"Yes.  What'd you talk about?" he wondered, coming to wrap her black cloak around her shoulders._

_Stella snuggled back into the familiar cloth.  "Hatred."_

 

But these unsettling conversations were not the worst of it.  Stella could have borne those with equanimity.  No, the worst came when the Dutchman would do as it was commanded, and capture other ships.  They were only under orders to deliver the ships to Lord Beckett... nothing had been said about the crews.

She didn’t think she had really understood, on a deep, visceral level, the depths of Davy Jones’ maliciousness until she’d been brought on deck, about two weeks into her stay, to see the battered remains of a frigate smoking off the port side and the shivering, terrified remnants of the crew kneeling on deck.  Jones had waited until she stepped out into the sunlight; waiting until her eyes had adjusted to the light and she had fully taken in her surroundings; then he had given her a tiny, poisonous smile, and lowered his crab-claw’s hand.  With it fell the swords and axes of his crew onto the conquered men kneeling on the deck.

Stella had nearly fainted.  She had seen death before, of course—her mother had been a sort of doctor, and Stella had nursed Eleanor in her final sickness.  She had been in the room when her mother died.  But she had never before seen so many people murdered in cold blood before her very eyes.  She had never seen skulls split, or veins gush, or litres and litres of blood spill out onto the deck.  She had never known that blood in such quantity would smell like that, or look like that—so dark that it was like a cloudy sky at night.   She had never heard anybody cry out like these men did... she had never before heard a dying man’s scream.

Only her force of will kept her upright, though her eyes were locked onto the men dying before her, watching the light in them die, watching them become just corpses, facsimile forms of people, cooling clay... made so by monsters at the order of the most monstrous of them all.

Jones had sent her back to the brig after the last corpse had been thrown to the sea, bidding her to tell Beckett that he was doing as told.  But Stella knew the real purpose of that little episode, knew it was designed to unsettle her.  He’d succeeded.  She returned to the chill darkness of the brig and to Bill Turner.  He knew instantly that something had happened—he could read her face easily, or perhaps she simply became less inscrutable the more troubled she was—and had simply put an arm around her shoulders and held her in silence until she stopped shaking. 

That night, and the nights after, her dreams were filled with blood and dying men.

She didn't think that things could get much worse, that there wasn't much more that Jones could do to her.  Certainly, things improved minutely (in the sense that Jones left her alone) after his bloody display, since the _Magdalene_ , one of Beckett's ships, was to meet with the _Dutchman_ two days later.  But then it got worse.  The captain of the _Magdalene_ was a cool man—probably hand-picked by Beckett to withstand the pathos of her plight—and simply accepted the wind-strings she gave him, presented her with another ball of yarn, a bushel of limes, and a bag of hard-tack, acknowledged that she was alive, and left.  He didn't seem to care that she was living in the brig, or that she wasn't being fed enough—and she knew that if  she had noticed his unconcern, so had Davy Jones.  The minute the _Magdalene_ sailed off, Stella began to steel herself for some truly unpleasant times ahead.

For a days, things were its usual unpleasantness; more "conversations" in which Jones needled her about James, about Beckett, about being pregnant and the supposed perfidy of women in general, and more episodes in which she was forced to watch more sailors executed at her feet.  She had almost got herself steeled to the constant death when Jones came up with a new way to make things awful.

 

_She'd been hearing the cannons firing for an hour.  The minute she heard the first shot, she'd set down her work—something she was trying to do for Bill to amend his memory—and begun to compose herself.  She knew well enough that she'd been called for the minute the battle was over, and she would need the time to compose herself.  No matter how many times she saw people killed, she never did get used to it.  She could never steel herself entirely, never got used to seeing their souls wink out.  The river dreams were long gone, and now she dreamed about the fading light of men's eyes.  She often woke, gasping and shivering, from nightmares in which it was James who lay dying on the deck._

_Eventually the cannons fell silent, and Stella clenched her fists in her skirts.  Everything but her hair went still—she'd stopped bothering to control her hair, most of the time, except when there were other humans about.  She needed her composure for too many other things to waste her willpower on her hair.  On a ship such as this, no one batted an eye anyway._

_Bill sat next to her, and put an arm around her shoulders.  She didn't react, but drew strength from the contact.  Bill was her only ally on this floating hell, and even though she found his constant focus on his son tiring and was sick of repeating her meagre stories about William Turner every night, she was coming to depend on him for comfort and for the simple knowledge that there was at least one person here who didn't wish her at the bottom of the sea._

_"You're strong, Stella," Bill whispered hoarsely to her.  She'd given him leave to call her Stella within the first week of her tenure here—it seemed stupid to stand on formality when they shared the same cell, and it was nice to have a place where she could be just Stella; Jones fenced with Black Stella, Beckett's people dealt with Mrs. Norrington, but down in the damp with only Bill she could be herself.  "Don't let him get to you.  He'd do this anyway, if you were here or not."_

That makes it no easier _, she thought to herself._ I still have to watch them die _._

_Soon enough, there came the sounds of stomping feet down the stairs, and—oh no—Jimmylegs opened the door to the brig.  Stella was already up and moving by the time the door swung open; previous experience showed that if she didn't, he would come in and drag her out.  It was best to just get up quickly and forestall at least one indignity._

_The bo'sun grabbed her skinny arm—thinner now than ever before—and dragged her up the stairs.  It was useless to protest that she could walk on her own; Jones' crew simply wanted an excuse to hurt her.  And they did; she'd run out of the balm she made for bruises within the first week._

_The sunlight hit her eyes and she flinched; living in near-constant dimness made the adjustment to daylight difficult.  Sure enough, there was another ship floating off the side of the_ Dutchman _(although, by the looks of this one, Beckett would have to shell out quite a bit of money to keep it afloat after all the cannon damage) and another group of crewmen kneeling on the deck._

_She faltered for a moment, taking in that group.  Among them was a cabin boy, no more than ten.  He was dark-skinned and trembling, and Stella ached for him, in the private corner of her heart that still grieved for Jack Osborn.  Surely, Jones wouldn't..._

_"Ah, Mrs. Norrington," Jones greeted her gleefully.  "These here are the crew of the_ Olamide _.  And they're going to die."_

_"Yes, I believe I've comprehended the finer nuances of the situation by now," Stella sneered in return.  The relationship between Davy Jones and herself had changed from bare civility over seething loathing to cheerful viciousness on his part and defensive sneering on hers.  Still with the seething loathing, of course._

_"Not this one," Jones smirked.  "Not all these men will die.  You choose."_

_Stella froze.  "I beg your pardon?"_

_"Come now, wretch, your wits are usually sharper than this," Jones taunted.  "You get to choose... mmm, let's say five.  Five of these men we'll spare from the blows of our swords and axes.  Five men who'll leave this ship alive.  Your choice."_

_She felt very cold, even in the midday sun.  "You say they'll leave the ship alive.  I suppose the next question would be where they will leave the ship, and how long they shall live after departing," she commented woodenly._

_Jones had a nasty little smile on his lips.  "Ah, but will you ruin their hope of survival?" he asked quietly._

Hope _, Stella thought._ There is no hope on this ship _.  Yes, Jones said they'd leave the ship alive.  However, he could throw them overboard to drown, and still keep his word. The word of a monster was worth less than nothing._

_However, that thought had apparently bypassed the defeated crewmembers, for they were muttering and shifting hopefully.  They turned their eyes to her, imploring, pleading with her to choose them, to prolong the inevitable, to alter the fate of dying on the deck of a ghost ship._ I can't save you _, she thought._ I can't prolong life but for mere moments.  Don't trust his promise.  You may leave the ship alive, but you will die within a day of doing so—count on it.  Don't look to me; I can do nothing for you.

_"I thought you generally asked them if they feared death," she remarked diffidently, while inwardly shuddering.  Perhaps some of her curses had caused a death or two in years past, but the recipients of them had always deserved it, had always been seeking to hurt her.  She was just defending herself.  And anyway, that death—if indeed there was a death; there was no telling if anything she did had ever caused a loss of life... there was no proof that anything she had ever done was fatal to anyone else—was always distant from her.  She'd never had to watch it before.  She'd never had to see it, choose it, take responsibility for it._

_...James was right.  She was a bad person._

_She'd never felt it so keenly as she did now._

_"I've got crew enough," Jones shrugged.  "Make your choice, witch.  Five."  He made the word stretch into two syllables, instead of one._

_"It will make no difference," she whispered as their eyes turned to her, imploring, worshipping.  She had become their goddess in the last few minutes, a goddess whose favour would spare them the sword.  A false goddess, with no power at all._

_Jones arched a brow.  "Then I'll kill them now, shall I?"  He gestured suddenly, and the crew raised their swords._

_The kneeling men cried out in fear, and Stella flung out a hand.  "No!" she bid desperately.  "No, I'll choose.  But at least give them a raft, for God's sake," she added in a quiet hiss._

_"Five," was all the response she got._

_"The boy," Stella said after a moment, pointing to him.  "The boy lives.  As does this one," gesturing to a man with caramel-coloured skin and lazy black curls and a spirit as pure and fiery the sun, "and him," to an older sailor with smile-lines all around his mouth and soul marked by wisdom, "and that one," towards a man whose gentle spirit shone out from his dark eyes, "and this last," choosing as the final man a sailor who, she could see, loved to feed stray animals and could charm birds into his hands.  "They will live."_

_Jones snapped his claw, and the crew of the_ Dutchman _dragged her chosen five away and threw them at Stella's feet.  The unlucky were felled immediately thereafter by the cruel blades of Jones' crew._

_She didn't want to watch, but kept her eyes on the carnage—the one time she had tried to avert her gaze, Jones had taken her neck in his claw and hissed into her ear, "You will watch this."  This was a show put on for her benefit, and it went worse for the dying should she turn away.  Then, instead of hacking off their heads, Jones' crew severed body parts.  Her witness provided them a quicker death than would otherwise be given._

_The five she had chosen huddled near her feet.  The boy clutched at her damp, dirty skirts and whimpered as his crewmates met their end; the older ones simply sighed or winced.  The eldest murmured a prayer quietly.  Stella stood above them, as though she'd been carved of stone—though truly, she was made of nothing more substantial than air._

_Once the massacre was completed, and the bodies thrown unceremoniously overboard, Jones turned back to Stella and her five survivors.  "These five will leave the ship alive, as I promised," the captain assured her maliciously.  "Chuck 'em overboard!"_

_The men shouted and yelled and cried out their protestations even as they were dragged towards the rail by the crew of the Dutchman.  But they were halted—predictably, perhaps; Jones had likely instructed them beforehand—by Stella's scream.  "Stop!"_

_She turned her eyes to Jones.  "Look to the spirit of the promise and not the letter of it," she implored swiftly.  "Give them a boat or a raft or something that they might have the hope of reaching land."_

_"And why should I do that?" Jones inquired idly, but the glee in his electric blue eyes was telling.  He wanted something from her—something to cause her even more pain._

_"There's something you want from me," Stella replied, her usual subtleties gone by the wayside in her attempts to save the lives of the child and the other decent sailors.  Trying so hard to salvage something from the great, overwhelming sea of failure, pain, and death that her life had so recently become.  "I will give it, if you let them live."_

_"And if I ask for your firstborn?" Jones asked, pointing at the swell of her belly._

_Stella was able to dredge up sufficient humour to snort sarcastically.  "My firstborn will be a girl.  I highly doubt you would have the slightest interest in hosting a baby girl in your ship.  Besides," she added quietly, "she isn't mine to give."  The baby was not only hers, she was James' too._

_"Admiral keeps you on a tight leash," Jones leered.  Stella didn't even bother to dignify that with a glare, and continued to stand resignedly before him.  "As it happens, harpy, there is something I want from you: truth.  Blunt, painful truth.  I'll ask you five questions.  You'll answer with complete truth.  In return, they get a raft."_

_"Raft first," Stella insisted, feeling deep dread in the pit of her stomach, and wondering idly if Davy Jones even knew her name._

_Jones rolled his eyes, but turned to his crew and bellowed, "Build a raft, maggots!"_

_The mutated being scurried to obey their captain, but Stella kept her eyes on Jones.  "And your inquiries?"_

_"Will wait," he replied gleefully.  He stumped closed and loomed over her.  "Make no mistake," he added, quiet and venomous, "I want everyone to hear your answers."_

_Stella knew she was paling—as much as she could, anymore, given that her skin was already as pale as sour milk due to the lack of sun in her life lately—but she couldn't help it. She couldn't hide how she dreaded baring her secrets for all the crew to hear.  Her heart and its truths were things she shrouded in secrecy and hid away from the world—very few people were privileged enough to receive the unvarnished truth from her lips.  It was just another form of defence.  And now she was going to lower those defences to save the lives of men she'd never met and would never see again..._

_Jones, correctly interpreting the look on her face, just chortled a bit and limped off to supervise the construction of the raft, leaving Stella standing stock-still in the middle of the deck._

_"Ma'am?"_

_She turned to see the five men she saved on their feet, staring at her with naked awe and gratitude in their eyes.  She tried a smile, but she was afraid it was a sickly and wan thing, barely more than a grimace.  "Yes?"_

_"We—dat's me and de others—we jest wanted to t'ank you for what you did," the eldest sailor explained—the older man with the silvery hair and the smile lines carved into his dark skin._

_"You're quite welcome," Stella replied faintly._

_"Woss your name, Ma'am?" the same man asked politely._

_"I am Mrs. Stella Norrington.  And yourselves?"_

_The eldest was called Luke—no surname.  Stella could see that he had been a slave on Barbados before escaping out to sea.  The gentle one, tall and graceful with very dark skin, was called Shehu, and he was from West Africa.  The man with the caramel skin was a mulatto from the southernmost of the 13 colonies, called himself Neddy Penrose (Stella knew he'd taken his surname, along with a good deal of money, from his father and former master).  The man who loved animals was half-Spanish, half-French and named Miguel Peréz.  And the boy—son of two runaway Jamaican slaves—was Jack Fletcher._

_Stella tried not to wince.  At least she would be able to save this one.  "You will have your raft," she said quietly.  A moment to call the wind to her, and process what information it brought her.  "Go west.  Your best chance for land lies in that direction."_

_She tugged a few strings loose from her dress—it really was starting to fall apart; she'd have to ask the next captain in the visiting rotation to tell the next to get her some more clothing, otherwise she'd be in rags and tatters in no time—and began to make a haphazard sort of wind-string.  It wasn't her best work, but it would propel them west.  Then she used a bit of fabric she tore off the bottom of her dress to make several squall strings—a less well-known trick of hers, which would call up a squall and dump rain on the holder of the string for at least a half-hour.  Most captains had provisions, and only kept these around for emergencies; however, the men on the raft would need water desperately._

_When she was finished—and it took her nearly as long to make the strings as it did for Jones' crew to cobble together the raft (and she wasn't sure if that spoke well of her or ill of them)—she handed the strings and tattered cloth to Luke.  "These are wind," she said, tapping the strings, "and these will bring rain.  Use them sparingly."_

_"Thanky, Missus," he said gratefully, ducking his head reverently._

_"You Black Stella, Ma'am?" came the query from Neddy._

_Stella smiled bitterly, and didn't even bother to chastise him for the use of the moniker.  "I was, before I got married."  Though she'd hated it at the time, being Black Stella had been so easy—it had been easy to be the ruler of her tiny kingdom, easy to cow all those who came before her and strike at those who thought to harm her.  Easy to be alone, and care for no one._

_A bitterness stronger than she'd even known suddenly rose up from the depths of her being, and she felt as though she was choking on it.        She should have just bitten her tongue, swallowed her bile, and stayed on Tortuga.  Anything would be better than this._

_"Dey hurt you, Missus?" asked Shehu softly, eyes lingering on the scrapes and bruises that littered Stella's pale skin._

_"Every day," she responded, in what was meant to be blithe unconcern, but which was far too choked up.  Her control was shredded._

_"You save us, we save you," Shehu said, in his deep voice.  "We sail under a Pirate Lord—"_

_"Which one?" Stella interrupted quickly._

_"Why you care, Señora?" replied Miguel warily._

_She stepped closer to them, and lowered her voice.  "Whoever he—or she—is, warn him.  Lord Cutler Beckett seeks the Pirate Lords.  I know not for what purpose Beckett seeks, but he does, relentlessly, and the_ Flying Dutchman _sails under his command."  Something occurred to her—a faint nudge from her supernatural senses, and she opened her mouth to sing quietly, "The king and his men stole the queen from her bed, and bound her in her bones..."_

_The suspicion cleared from the sailors'—pirates', if they recognised it—eyes, and they nodded.  "The Song," Luke murmured.  "It's been sung."_

_"Yes.  Warn your Lord," Stella insisted.  If Beckett was going to do so very little to protect her, if he let this happen to her, why should she help him?  Why should she not hinder him when she could?  She wanted him to fail.  She wanted him as frustrated and hopeless as she was.  And while she could not strike at him herself, she could give others the tools to do so._

_"An' you?" Shehu insisted.  "You touched by de spirit world.  You oughta be treated as de goddess you are, not kept as de slave of dese monsters."_

_"Come with us," little Jack piped up, surprising everyone._

_It was tempting—so very tempting.  Jones would probably let her leave, with the double incitements of getting her off the ship and spitting metaphorically in Beckett's face.  She'd be safe and free—or at least safer and freer than here._

But what about James? _whispered a tiny voice in her mind._ What will happen to him if you vanish?  Who will protect him from Beckett, if not you?  What about Isaac?  Who will rein in his temper if not you?  What about your conspiracy?  Who will hold it together, if not you?  What about Beckett himself?  Who will thwart his plans, if not you?

_Stella swallowed her misery and took a deep breath.  "I thank you for the offer, young one, but I cannot.  I am chained here, sure as anything."  She placed her thin, parchment-white hand on his shoulder.  "You must escape, and live.  Warn the Lords if you wish, but above all else, survive.  I am going to be showing that... creature..." referring to Jones, "...the most vulnerable places in my heart in return for your lives.  Do not waste them."_

_The five still stared at her as though she was a sainted being come to earth to bless them, or as if she were the heroine from an Arthurian romance, trapped in a tower and awaiting rescue.  (And she was, of course, but she would only suffer one man to save her.  If he didn't come, she'd save herself.)  It was a combination of awe, reverence, and adoration that had never been truly directly towards her before, and part of her liked it—it was a balm on the realisation that she was, deep down, really a rather awful person.  Here were men who didn't care that she had let others die without batting an eye—they only cared that she had chosen to save them at the expense of her secrets._

_She sealed the expressions on their faces in her mind, burned the image in her heart as a talisman—this was why she was going to give her truths to Davy Jones, to save these decent men, these men who scraped a modicum of honour and goodness from a life of piracy and the child who had not yet seen enough of the world, and for the way they looked at her right now._

_"We won't forget," Neddy promised._

_"'So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, so long lives this, and this gives life to thee,'" Stella murmured absently._

_Further conversation was negated by the intrusion of Davy Jones, who stumped over and bellowed, "Raft's ready!"  He extended the hand with the long tentacle, saying, "I've kept to my part, hag—now you keep to yours."_

_"A pact?" Stella inquired, raising a brow._

_"Aye._

_So, Stella took his hand (trying not to grimace at the feeling of cold, slimy skin beneath hers) and swore to tell the truth to the next five questions Jones asked her, provided that he did as he promised; Jones wrapped his index tentacle around her wrist and swore that he would put the five survivors on a raft and set them loose without any further meddling, provided that Stella answered his next five questions truthfully.  They finished it off with a "So mote it be", at which point Davy Jones received the sensation of static electricity all over his skin, and Stella's hair twitched while the hand in Davy Jones' got exponentially more slimy._

_The two released their hands, and both wiped their appendages discreetly while eyeing the other suspiciously._

_Soon, however, Jones was looking absolutely gleeful, grinning widely as his betentacled beard squirmed merrily on his chest.  The rest of the crew gathered round, elbowing each other and leering excitedly at Stella and her chosen five.  "Question one: why did Beckett place you on this ship?" the Captain demanded._

_"I honestly don't know," Stella replied—and that was true.  She held up her hand when Jones moved to protest, and added, "That is the God-given truth, Captain.  I honestly don't know why he put me here.  I can only theorise."_

_"Then do so.  You're clever—let's hear what you think," Jones ordered sardonically, making his crew snicker._

_"I think he put me here because he hates me.  I think he put me here because he controls the behaviour of Admiral Norrington and by using me against him, and vice versa.  My presence here ensures the Admiral's compliance with all of Beckett's orders, and likewise the Admiral's presence away from me ensures my obedience  Should either of us misbehave, the other will suffer.  I also believe," she added slowly, knowing that she had to be completely truthful or suffer the consequences of oathbreaking, "that Beckett thinks Admiral Norrington and I will conspire against him if left to our own devices together on land."  She smoothed her skirts.  "There is the truthful answer to your first question, Captain Jones."_

_"Here's the second: why does Beckett hate you?"_

_Stella narrowed her eyes thoughtfully.  "There are many reasons," she hedged for a moment, collecting her thoughts.  "Perhaps most importantly, he hates me because I have a power he does not.  He despises with a furore borne of jealousy all those who have paranormal abilities and talents—perhaps because his mother, who was supernaturally inclined, was disappointed and disdainful that he was not.  I also believe he hates me because I refuse to submit to him.  I will not be of my own will that which he wishes me to be—which is utterly acquiescent to him and all his whims.  I will not place myself entirely at my disposal, and for that he hates me.  There was also," she added reluctantly, knowing that speaking this would but confirm Jones' silly theories but knowing as well that it needed to be spoken under the terms of her oath, "a proposal of marriage from him to me, tendered while I was engaged to the Admiral."  Sure enough, Jones was smirking as though he'd been proved right.  "I refused him, naturally, since I was already promised to another, and though I was led to believe there were no hard feelings between us, it is possible—though unlikely—that Beckett yet resents the rejection.  Personally, I believe the proposal was simply another attempt to subjugate the closest representation of the supernatural and place it under his control—it had nothing to do with me as a woman.  No, the surest reason for Beckett's hatred is because of what I am, intrinsically, and the fact that I will not bend to his every whim."_

_"Why won't you?" Jones asked, raising a brow and leering at her._

_"Is this one of your questions?" Stella shot back, mirroring his expression._

_Jones thought about that for a moment, narrowing his eyes at her, but eventually shook his head sharply.  "No.  I don't care that much—and anyway, I already know," he added darkly.  "You're a proud, disagreeable, perverse creature and won't do nowt but what you want."_

_"Guilty," Stella replied lightly._

_The Captain sneered at her.  "Third question: who's sprog is it?" he demanded, jabbing his crab claw at her middle._

_Stella rolled her eyes.  "For the fifth—and hopefully final—time, the child I carry is Admiral James Norrington's," she answered tartly.  "The answer won't change, no matter how many times you ask."_

_Jones looked disappointed.  He'd been asking her, randomly and often, who had fathered her child—did he think she would change her answer if surprised?  Honestly. Well, now he had her oath-given word that her daughter was no bastard.  Hopefully now he'd stop asking._

_Davy Jones rallied admirably, however; his next question was open-ended.  "What do you fear?"_

_"Many things," Stella returned simply.  "I fear drowning. I fear disgrace and dishonour, and humiliation in all its forms. I fear loosing my social status, and being cast into the lowest level. I fear Beckett, and his power, and his purposes.  I fear love.  I fear losing control, over both myself and my circumstances.  I fear death, but only insofar as my family is concerned—not for myself, or a fear of what lies beyond.  I’m afraid of widowhood... of my daughter and I left unprotected against the word—and against Beckett.  I fear pain, physical and emotional.  I fear loneliness—not mere personal solitude, but being bereft of supernatural companionship."  Stella had forgotten that there was so much she feared, so much that she kept hidden inside herself—the oath drove her on to tell everything, though she made sure to be as vague as she could.  "I fear dying in childbirth, leaving my daughter to grow up without me to guide her.  I fear that my baby will come to harm due to Beckett's... plans.  I fear the same of my husband, and my brother.  I fear that Beckett will succeed, and what the world might look like then, and what my place in it might be.  I fear... loosing the esteem of those I esteem. And I fear that I am a much less virtuous person that I had previously supposed."_

_Jones still looked disappointed—was he upset that most of her fears were metaphysical, and thus impossible to use against her?  Stella felt vexed—she'd just bared one of the most private parts of herself for his perusal, and he was disappointed?_

_"You seem a creature of smoke and mirrors, harridan," Jones remarked thoughtfully, stumping over and perusing her from top to bottom.  Stella remained as she was, standing stock-still and ramrod-straight, staring straight ahead.  "Most that you fear is concerned with how others see you, how you show yourself.  I wonder," he remarked, coming very close behind her, close enough that the tentacles of his beard reached out for the at-the-moment-quiet locks of her hair, "I wonder what would happen if I were to expose you."_

_Stella snorted, to conceal the compulsive twitch of her hands.  "How think you to expose me when you don't know what you intend to expose?  Questions aside, Captain, you truly have no idea who I truly am, or what I hide behind my 'smoke and mirrors'," she drawled in return._

_Jones had a point, though.  She hid so much... even from herself.  What was she, deep down inside, truly?_

_She hurt.  This had been such an unpleasant day, full of death, hard choices, emotional exposure and, most painfully, the dawning knowledge that she was not as virtuous as she had thought.  She had concealed so much from herself that it had come as an unwelcome surprise, drawn from her by Davy Jones, of all people.  Stella just wanted to go back to the quiet darkness of the brig and lick her wounds; it felt like her soul had been drawn over a carpet of broken glass and nails._

_And there was still one final question due to Davy Jones._

_Jones limped around to face her again; he was, like most men she encountered, taller than she, and he stared down into her face with piercing eyes.  Stella wondered, once again, if he could see anything in her._

_"Final question," Stella noted quietly._

_"Final question," Jones agreed, grinning.  "Tell me, witch: are you in love with your husband?"_

_All the colour washed right out of Stella's face, and she couldn't disguise the way her hands trembled or the quick intake of breath she couldn't help.  Why did he have to ask her this?  This was information she never wanted to see the light of day, and handing it to Jones was issuing an invitation for later pain.  But she couldn't lie, couldn't evade or avoid... could do nothing but give the simple answer that Jones demanded._

_"Yes," she whispered._

_The sadistic glee that lit Jones' blue eyes made her want to vomit.  "What's that, wretch?  I couldn't quite hear you," he commented brightly._

_"Yes," Stella repeated, more strongly._

_"Yes what?" Jones pressed, still grinning._

_She gave him a poisonous glare.  "The answer to your question is yes," she replied, biting off her words viciously.  If she avoided saying the words, perhaps the truth behind them wouldn't hurt as much._

_"And what was the question?" Jones seemed determined to pull it out of her, just to make it hurt—no need to wonder at his motivations, then._

_"The question was whether or not I loved my husband," Stella replied stiffly._

_"No, witch, the question was whether or not you are in love with him," Jones corrected her.  "There's a difference."_

_"Of which I am well aware," Stella snapped._

_"And your answer?"_

_"Was yes, as you know full well."_

_"Yes to what?"_

_"Your question.  Captain, this is getting tiresome," Stella complained._

_"Then give me what I want," Jones hissed.  "I want to hear you say it, for all the pain it will cause you."_

_She shot him a glare full of pure loathing.  "Yes, I am in love with Admiral James Norrington," she spat icily.  "Much good may the knowledge do you!"_

_"It causes you pain and makes you afraid—that's enough good right there," Jones smirked.  "Thank you kindly, harpy, for your honesty," he added sarcastically._

_Stella could only fume in silent, frustrated fury.  Her chosen five, who had stood behind her and offered their support, as much as they could, were bidden harshly to board the raft and get gone to the devil, or wherever else they might go.  She accompanied them to the rail, and watched with angry, frustrated longing as they prepared to depart, to do what she could not._

_"Thanky, Missus," said the elder Luke, sketching her a bow._

_"God bless ye, Ma'am," Neddy murmured as he passed._

_"We won't forget," added little Jack, staring worshipfully up at her._

_"Sí, señora," Miguel confirmed reverently.  "Vaya con Díos."_

_Shehu was the last to board.  "Dere's no shame in love, Lady," he said quietly.  And before she could reply, he was gone._

_Jones let her stay on deck as the Dutchman sailed away, and she watched, wistful and angry at once, as the raft receded into the distance.  She could make out little Jack waving at her for a time, before another—Luke, she thought—made him sit._

_Part of her wished fervently that she was going with them._

_Soon enough, she was shoved back down the stairs and tossed back in the brig, feeling ragged and worn.  Bill came to her immediately, asking worriedly, "What happened?"_

_His compassion and friendship was the last straw.  Stella looked at him, in the darkness of their shared accommodations, and whimpered, "I’m a bad person."  And then she started crying._

_Bill immediately embraced her—at least, as much as he could, with all the coral.  "Hush now, love, hush.  You're not a bad person, not at all," he crooned soothingly, rocking her back and forth._

_But Stella was beyond consolation, beyond any self-control, and kept shedding hot tears into Bill's chest.  No matter what he said, she knew the truth: she was a bad person._

_She just hadn't seen it before now._

 

Since that day, she was often forced to choose who would live and die among the captive crews.  Occasionally she gave more of her secrets—Jones now knew far more than he ought about the state of the feelings between her and James—but that had come to a stop recently.  Not only were the men on the ships declining in decency, she was running out of secrets.  She merely suggested that they remain with their ships until Beckett arrived.  Jones agreed—probably since both of them knew that the East India Company would just execute them anyway.  However, Stella found it increasingly difficult to care.

She was aware that this unwillingness to save her fellow man was simply more evidence that she was a bad person, but she could not bare her entire soul to Davy Jones.  She didn't have the courage.  And anyway these were people she didn't know, or care about, and who were brigands and lawbreakers anyway...

She was a bad person.

Since that day, Stella had done some soul-searching, and grown steadily more morose.  Perhaps it was partially due to the mood-swings inspired by her advancing pregnancy, but her depression was inspired mostly by the knowledge of her own inadequacy.  It was a devastating hit to her pride, which was one of the only things that kept her going nowadays.

So perhaps it was no wonder that Stella was beginning to fray at the seams, and that her control over her emotions was becoming very, very tenuous.

And it was in this state—this weakened, stressed, emotionally vulnerable state—that she received word of James' impending visit.


	32. Stella Veritatis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Norringtons are at odds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is edging towards 2009...
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> _This chapter was written fully in China! (Ha ha, made in China!) Sorry for the long wait, but..._
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> _Okay, so we had this holiday at the beginning of October—called National Day. We all got about a week off, and we all went travelling (we being the international teachers). However, everyone was going south, to either Hong Kong or Guilin. I didn’t want to go south—I hate the heat and being hot. I wanted to go to Beijing. So I went... alone._
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> _Bit of a mistake. A western woman, alone? I might as well have been wearing a big honking sign that said "Please, Rob Me!" Which is just what happened._
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> _First night in Beijing, some bastard stole my purse. Just cut the straps when we were crushed in the subway, and made off with my passport, my train ticket back to Yangzhou, all three of my bank cards, my driver’s license, and all my money. I was screwed pretty bad. But due to the kindness of several Chinese persons, I was able to get some money wired to me, mostly fix the passport thing, and otherwise salvage my holiday. But still, I done got robbed!_
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> _However, the holiday was cool. I saw the Forbidden City, and Tiananmen Square, and the Summer Palace, and the Temple of Heaven, and I hiked a 10 km stretch of the Great Wall (which nearly killed me). And I ate duck and hot pot and tried a rambutan. It was a pretty cool time._
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> _But still, problems arose when I returned home. I couldn't get access to my bank account because the card got stolen, and I couldn't get a new card unless I had my passport (which also got stolen). I am still without passport or money, and am surviving mostly on the charity of friends. It's kind of lousy._
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> _Anyway, this chapter is another kind of dark, angsty chapter in which no one is happy except Davy Jones. And he's only happy when other people are miserable. But here it is. It was going to be longer, but, as usual, it screeched to a halt sooner than I had planned. Which is fine, because the stopping point works._
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> _Also! I cannot get on livejournal in this country. It's blocked. Haven't been on my livejournal in months. If you want to get a hold of me, LJ isn't the way to do it anymore. PM or e-mail me._
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> _Enough twaddle and babble! Onto the chapter!_

Bootstrap Bill Turner was worried about Stella.

He'd watched her composure slip further and further as time passed.  He was loosing count of the nightmares he woke her from at night, and oftimes lately, when coming back from a meeting with Jones, she'd start weeping the minute they were alone.  She was jumpy and startled easily; her hands were unsteady.  And she was sad—deeply sad, down in her heart.

He wished there was something he could do for her.  But there was nothing—they were prisoners here, and them who came at Beckett's behest cared nothing for Stella's plight.  Bill could do nothing but watch her collapse inwardly and give her what comfort was in him to provide.  It wasn't much.  And thus, he worried.

It was natural worry, he figured (and which he intended to tell anyone who might ask).  Aside form William's brief visit, she was the only meaningful human contact he'd had since taking the oath to the _Dutchman_.  He shared his space with her, spent almost every moment of every day with her.  Stella Norrington was all that was keeping him sane, and connected to the pithy remnants of his humanity.

The fact that he was probably a little in love with her was a fact he intended to tell no one.  If Jones got wind of it, it would be a world of pain for both of them.  And Stella was in enough pain at the moment.

Within the privacy of his head, however, Bill was honest enough to admit that the love he felt for her was the reason he was unhappy about her husband's impending visit.

He should've been happy about it.  Here was someone coming to look on the lady who actually cared that Jones was tormenting her, that her clothing was dirty and ragged, that she never got enough to eat, and that she was living in the brig.  Someone who cared that she was miserable.  Someone who cared that the _Flying Dutchman_ was no place for a lady, let alone a lady four or five months gone with child.

...Someone who could take her away.

Bill cursed himself for a fool whenever this thought surfaced in his mind.  He ought to be happy to see her go.  This was no place for any lady, and Jones hated Stella especially.  He ought to be looking for the fastest way to get her away, ought to be stealing her a boat like he did for William, or at least ought to be cheering for anyone who could take her back to the warm and dry rooms she deserved.

But... but she'd become his touchstone, letting him cling to the things that mattered.  She made things more real, linked him to the outside world, reminded him that it existed.  She reminded him that William was out there, somewhere, working to free him.  She reminded him that Jones had been wrong, and his son was still alive—Stella had told him that, had brought him out of despair.  She remained a physical reminder of his son's existence outside this ship; Stella knew him, knew William, had seen him alive.  In some ways, Bill felt that as long as Stella was alive, part of William was still with him.

And she was also the only woman he'd talked to in... oh, nigh on fifteen years.  The only woman he'd touched in fifteen years.  The only woman he remembered at all, really—Kate was nothing more than a name and a faint recollection of dark eyes, now.

It was... nice.   It was nice, to have some companionship.  It was nice to have her tell him what she knew about William, even if it wasn't much.  It was nice to hear her chatter on about what she was discovering about the ship (something about enchantments and perversions and curses driven by love that Bill didn't really understand but liked to hear about anyway).  It was nice to watch her scribble in her notebooks and peer through that glass around her neck at the cell around them.  It was nice to watch her ration her limes, and eagerly peel and eat one every day, as though it were a treat of some kind.  And it was marvellous to be witness to her pregnancy.

Bill still remembered the first moment she'd felt the child move inside her.  Stella's black eyes had lit up like the night sky, and she'd smiled—really, truly smiled, in a way that made him realise that what he thought had been smiles were just pale reflections of the real expression.  And then she'd grabbed his hand and put it to her belly, asking if he could feel it too.  He'd been able to feel the heat of her skin through the damp cloth, but no stirring from the child within.  Bill had considered teasing her that if she got out of the heavy dress he might be able to, and had been ashamed at how much the idea of Stella in nothing but a wet, white shift appealed to him—she was a lady, a married lady, growing heavy with another man's child.

Bill had simply shrugged a little and said that he couldn't feel it.  Stella's smile hadn't diminished; instead, it had turned a little mysterious, a womanly secret hidden in the corners of her lips, as she said simply, "I can."

He kept the memory of those two smiles close to his heart.

So perhaps it was natural that he was a little resentful that another man was to come and intrude on his and Stella's little world.  Even worse, it was the man Stella loved, although her manner of being in love with a man was unlike any other he'd seen.  She seemed terrified of the feeling, refused to talk about the object of her affections, and was horrified that the recipient of her heart might discover that he had it.  When she heard that Admiral Norrington was to visit, all the colour washed right out of her already-pale face and she had to sit down on the bunk.

"No," she'd whispered.  "No, he mustn't come.  He mustn't see me like this."  Then she'd flinched a little, and drew into herself.

"Don't you want to see him?" Bill had asked her, a little confused.

Stella's black eyes had been bleak and despairing.  "Yes," she replied, voice hoarse.  The longing contained in that one word was... painful, both to him and to her.  "But... but like this?" she added, gesturing at herself.

Bill looked her up and down.  It was true he thought she was lovely—of course, she was the only woman he'd seen in fifteen years.  But it was also true that she was very thin, that her hair was loose and lank and writhing free, that her clothing was dirty and ragged, that her skin was just as dirty, and that she just seemed... tired.  Tired and bone-weary.  Not, he admitted, the most attractive of combinations.

"If he loves you, he won't care," Bill pointed out, not bothering to clarify which "he" he truly meant.

Stella laughed bitterly.  "Aye, there's the rub," she scoffed.  "Bill, he doesn't love me.  As a matter of fact," she added acidly, "he's in love with your William's Elizabeth.  And he has been for as long as I've known him.  I married him knowing it.  If that knowledge hurts me now, it's only my own fault."

"You're too young to be that bitter," Bill remarked, wanting desperately to touch her, stroke her hair and soothe her, but knowing enough of Stella that now was not a good time.  She was feeling savage, and would strike at any and all who came too near.

Of course, he also desperately wanted to know something about Elizabeth.  William loved her, and apparently so did the Admiral.  What kind of woman was she, the girl who would be his daughter-in-law if the Turners were anything like a normal family?  What kind of woman was she, to make so many love her?  How did she come to choose William out of all who sought her favour?

He knew well enough not to ask.

Stella gave him a withering look, but he had apparently distracted her out of her melancholy, and that day held no more conversation about the coming of the Admiral.  But Bill could see how she worried at it.  There'd been a week between the arrival of the news and the actual arrival of the person, and Stella hadn't been herself for one moment of it.

The day he was to arrive, Stella marshalled what water they could and had a spit-bath in the corner of the brig.  Usually, Bill was gentlemanly enough to keep his eyes away from her, but that day—perhaps the last day, because surely Admiral Norrington would spirit his wife away the moment he saw the conditions she was living in—Bill allowed himself to sneak a peek or two.  Stella might be the last woman he'd see for the next fifteen years—or forever.  And even if William succeeded in freeing him from the Dutchman, he'd never see her again, never see black-haired Stella.  She was an Admiral's wife, and he was a pirate, a dead man walking.  So he peeked.

She was so pale, and Bill could see the shadows of her veins.  Her white skin stretched over thin, delicate bones; he could see the curve of her back, the swell of breasts and belly. But under the pleasure he felt from looking at her was a gnawing concern.  She wasn't getting enough to eat.  As he glanced at her back, he could see the bumps of her spine, and when she pivoted left or right he could count her ribs.  Hard-tack, limes, tiny bits of dried meat, the occasional fish and what seaweed she could choke down were not enough for her. 

Bill looked away.  The Admiral had to take her home.  Stella wouldn't last much longer here, in these conditions.  Jones would hound her to death.

Oh, but how he would miss her.

He helped her lace herself into the best dress she had left—it was yellow and had the least amount of tears and stains.  But it was still ragged and dirty and fit her very ill around the middle... fit her ill everywhere, now that she was so thin.  He watched curiously as she made her writhing hair coil itself up onto the top of her head in the style of high-class ladies, leaving one lock to hang down her back and wind itself lazily into a curl.  In theory, anyway, Bill imagined.  She was apparently still nervous, and that tendril kept wiggling around, curling around her neck, making her silver bells chime—and even more telling, Stella didn't bother coaxing it to stillness.

"You look beautiful," Bill said quietly.  It was the only thing he could think of that wouldn't reveal too much.

But quicksilver Stella always saw more than others.  She glanced at him, a medley of expressions passing over her face—surprise, understanding, pain, pity, horror, compassion, and longing all in a span of mere moments.  Then she smiled sadly.  "If only James could see me with your eyes," she murmured forlornly.

And in that moment, Bootstrap Bill Turner hated Admiral James Norrington.

* * *

James wasn't feeling patient, and had blithely ignored the duty roster.  He was going to see Stella, Beckett's schedule be damned.

It had taken him a day or so to find a ship with enough free time to take him out to the _Dutchman_.  Yes, as Admiral, he could have just ordered the most convenient one, but James didn't want to make too many ripples.  If he did this discreetly, without flinging too much of his weight around, Beckett would not forbid him.

The irony of this was not lost upon him.

But the captain of the _Fearless_ , which was one of the navy's ships and not one of Beckett's conscripts, was willing to take the Admiral to the _Dutchman_ on its own time, and not under the duty roster.  Captain Lennox was also one of the old guard who had sailed under James when he was Commodore.  While Lennox wasn't part of the Greek Fire yet—the last of the old guard that wasn't, as a matter of fact—James had high hopes that he could be swayed, perhaps on this voyage.

James wasn't sure how he'd find Stella, but his gut instinct was that she would not be well.

Caroline d'Ascoyne and Anne Witcher had put together a box of things they thought Stella might like—small cakes, scented soaps, a bottle of the gardenia water Stella favoured, a small cushion... all those little luxuries that ladies enjoyed and which were absent on the _Dutchman_.  James, though he had decided to take her off the ship and hide her away if he found her ill-treated, made up a care-package himself—biscuits, some bread, a new woollen shawl, salted pork, boiled eggs, and a variety of fruits Stella liked.  Isaac was out at sea hunting pirates at the moment, or he would have surely have contributed.  Or bullied his way along.

So James set off, small crate in tow, fretting all the way.  Would Stella be all right?  Or was he overreacting?  What if he wasn’t overreacting?  What would Beckett do if James defied him, and hid Stella away?  Where would he hide her, for that matter?  Would Stella even consent to being hid?  Was there no one to whom he could send her?

Lennox sensed his tension, and James knew the man was boiling with questions.  But he would wait to sway Lennox to their side until discerning if Stella was well or not.  She might place the welfare of their conspiracy to overthrow Beckett above her own health and his wishes, but James would not.  There were few things he valued in the world anymore; his recently regained rank was one, the men under his command the other, and Stella was the third (especially since he only had the previous two things due to Stella anyway).  The conspiracy would be for nothing if she was dead at the end of it.

The _Dutchman_ was moored within sight of an island—one of the Caymans, James noted distantly—as the _Fearless_ sailed up.  Lennox was shouting orders and readying the marines, while James stood in his usual place at the rail of the quarterdeck, brooding grimly and glaring at the offending ship.  It brought nothing but misfortunes in its wake.

"You’re a week early," was all Jones said once James was standing before him, Lennox at his side, supported by an entire squadron of marines.

"I'm not here on a schedule.  I've come to see my wife," James replied think coldly.

Jones raised a brow (or, at least the part of his face that was the equivalent thereof).  "Have you, now?" he inquired curiously.  "You took your time coming around to it.  Your poor Missus must think you don't love her," he added, a slight taunting note in his voice.

James frowned slightly—what did he mean by that?  But he ignored it, and went on.  "Where is she?"

"Been keeping her belowdecks," Jones replied lightly, but with an excited light in his blue eyes that made James feel uneasy.  "The crew don't like having a live lady aboard.  We keep her tucked away for her own safety.  I'll show you down," he offered magnanimously.

That set off warning bells in James' head.  Davy Jones was many things, but magnanimous was not one of them.  Stella's quarters below must be awful, and Jones was looking forward to seeing his reaction, perhaps.  Or perhaps he was hoping James would slip and break his neck on the way down.

Signalling to Lennox to accompany him with a few marines, James followed Jones below.  The Captain of the _Dutchman_ went slowly, exaggerating his limp and chatting in what must have passed for amiable in his mind, though it was obvious that he was digging for information.  "S'been more than a month with the... woman... aboard," Jones remarked, and James had a feeling he censored himself from calling Stella something more foul.

"So it has," James agreed dryly.

"She's well," Jones added, although he sounded as though he wished fervently that this was not so.

"I'm sure she is.  If she isn't, I'll know why," James returned, smiling tightly.

Jones' beard twitched.  "Gotten big with child, she has," he commented after a moment, ducking through a doorway festooned with mussels and seaweed.

"As I expected," James said mildly.

"She says it's yours."

A spike of anger rose and receded.  "She is correct," he bit out through clenched teeth.

"I'd wondered, y'see," Jones went on, as though James hadn't spoken, "since you left her here.  Thought you wanted to have her put away—figured you didn't love her anymore."

There was that insinuation again—did Jones somehow know of his love, yet lingering, for Elizabeth Swann?  Was that why he kept implying that he didn't love Stella?  "Mrs. Norrington's placement here was decided upon without any input of my own," James replied icily.  "I would like nothing better than to remove her back to Jamaica and the comfort of our home.  If I find her unwell, I will do so. Lord Beckett and his orders can go straight to the devil."

Jones raised a brow and grinned.  "Promise?"

The alarm bells got louder.  The only reason for such a promise would be if Stella was unwell, and Jones knew she was unwell.  James surged forward, meaning to pass Jones on the way down the stairs, but the monstrous captain moved swiftly to block James' progress with his crab-claw arm, and then moved to bring their faces closer together.  "Careful, Admiral—you don't know where she is.  I could be keeping her in the bilges," Jones warned cheerfully.

"You wouldn't dare," James spat.  Then he calmed himself, mindful of Lennox and the others behind him.  "Let us speak plainly, Captain, and do away with these insinuations and threats."

Jones adopted an expression of bemused surprise, raising his brows and pursing his lips.  "You're a different sort from your witch," he remarked.  "You've got to pry the truth out of her—s'like getting barnacles off your hull.  It's nigh impossible to get past her smoke and mirrors.  But you cut straight to the heart of the matter, aiming for plain truth.  Is that how you live with her?  Can you see past her disguises?  Or does she hide everything from you, too?" he taunted.

James sneered at him.  "My relationship with my wife is none of your business," he replied coldly.  "What have you been doing to her?"

"Getting her to tell the truth, for once in her life," Jones answered darkly.

"I refuse to believe you can make such generalised statements about her nature in so short an acquaintance," James said sourly.  "And I would kindly appreciate if you would cease maligning my wife's character."

"Mmm, would you, now?" Jones asked, turning away and moving to continue down the stairs belowdecks.  "S'pose you would know her better than I... you married the wretched creature.  You know that she fears drowning?"

"Yes."  He didn't know where Jones was going with this.

"And that she favours passion-fruit over cake."

"Yes."  James had found Stella's choice for a favourite food to be particularly ironic.  He also had no idea why Jones chose to retain that particular titbit of information.

"And that your patron—" the word was spat out with particular venom, "offered to marry her."

James rolled his eyes.  "Yes.  Is there a point to this recitation of Mrs. Norrington's preferences, all of which, I can assure you, I am perfectly well aware?" he asked sharply.

Jones nodded sagely, stopping at a door similar enough to others James was familiar with for him to realise this was the _Dutchman's_ brig.  As he fought down a surge of anger that Stella was being imprisoned, he nearly missed Jones' final commentary.  "T'was merely curious to see if you knew what your lady was."  The Captain paused.  "And if you knew that she's in love with you."

James nearly stumbled, but recovered in time to both avoid slamming into the door of the brig and catch the malicious little grin of Jones' face.  That he hadn't known.

The previous conversation made more sense, now—Jones was establishing his credibility as one familiar with Stella's secrets, so that if everything else he said was true, this must be also.  James was surprised, but didn't trust Jones well enough to take his word for Stella's feelings.   After all, Stella was afraid of love—aside from drowning, it was one of the most plain of her fears.  If Jones knew she feared submersion, there was no reason to think he didn't know that she feared love.  And Jones enjoyed making others as miserable as he.  If James went in and stuck his foot in due to Jones' false information, it would drive him and Stella apart and make them both miserable and Jones as happy as he was capable of getting.  Thus, he would do nothing, respond to nothing, until he spoke with Stella and had the truth from her.

But this must be why Jones kept insinuating that James didn't love Stella.  He must know that James didn't.

So James simply raised a brow at Jones, and gestured at the door to the brig.  "If you please, Captain?  I'd like to see my wife," he requested evenly.  Jones snorted a little, but unlocked the door and pushed it open, gesturing for James to enter.  "Keep it open," he added sternly.  "Captain Lennox, have your men guard the staircase.  Jones... feel free to return to the deck," James finished, with enough steel in his voice to indicate that it was more a command than a suggestion.

He didn't bother to turn and see if his orders were being obeyed—there, in the middle cell, he could see a familiar figure in a yellow gown; the one spot of light in the dim brig.  Stella.

His steps slowed as he approached her, and quickly took in her situation.  It was a cell, damp and dark and dank as so much of the ship, with coral and barnacles sprouting from the walls and the bars.  Her trunk was propped in the corner, and her black cloak (now faded to a dark brown, and looking much worse for the wear) spread on the one bunk in the cell.  And... there was someone else in there with her—one of Jones' crew, sitting in the corner of the bunk and glaring at him with faded blue eyes.  James dismissed him, and turned his eyes onto his wife.

Stella looked... awful.  Her skin had taken on the yellowish tinge of sour milk—a sure sign that she passed most her time here in the darkness of this damp cell.  She had lost weight—too much.  James could see her collarbones jutting prominently out from below her thin neck, and the bulge of her pregnant belly strained the waist of her dress even as the sleeves sagged around her skinny arms—skinny arms that were mottled with healing scrapes and fading bruises.  Her hands looked more like claws, and there were dark circles around her eyes, and her hair was less sleek and glossy, coiled on top of her head—and Stella didn't keep it under as tight control, since he could see it shifting around every so often.  And even the effortless, breezy poise she wore constantly seemed strained; her expressions seemed tighter than usual, and there was something... frail about her now.

James smiled half-heartedly.  "Hello, Starling.  You look..."

"Horrible.  Yes, I know," Stella replied, smiling in return and curling her talon-like fingers around to bars of her cell.  But there was something brittle in it.  She looked ready to shatter.  What had Davy Jones been doing to her, to replace proud, elegant, eternally-composed Stella with this tattered, nervous, desperately fragile creature?

He folded his fingers over hers—they were cold and clammy.  "Has it truly been so awful?" he asked quietly.

Stella's hand trembled a little, under his.  "Yes," was her hoarse reply.  A shaky, tremulous smile twitched across her pale face.  "I suppose you now have the pleasure of telling me 'I told you so'."

James grinned faintly.  "I told you so, Starling," he pointed out.  But the satisfaction he felt due to being able to get the better of her was muted by the straits she was in.

"It was worth it for a while," Stella muttered.

"What did you find out that made this," gesturing at her, "worth it?"

" _The Flying Dutchman_ was first enchanted by a powerful, inhuman presence, but to what purpose I have not yet divined.  I believe it grants the captain of the vessel some augmented powers, and in linking himself to the ship gains a connection to make it do things it would not ordinarily do... such as sail underwater.  Davy Jones corrupted those enchantments, twisted them into something else.  I think it was a curse... frustrated love and all that," Stella explained, though her voice wobbled a little at the end.

James was unimpressed.  "I don't think it was worth it—these pithy titbits of information for however much you've suffered."

"It has to be worth it," Stella retorted lowly, "or it was all for nothing.  And anyway," she added, trying for lightness, "there's much more that I've discovered, but I didn't think you'd understand."  She paused, and swallowed.  "Will... will you take my notes back to Jamaica?  I... if I can't... if he won't let me... if they're destroyed or lost..."

"I'll take them—and you," he promised, making a decision.  "This is barbaric and unhealthy and I'm taking you away right now."  A flare of frantic hope lit in Stella's black eyes, and for some reason it made something in James' chest hurt.  He turned away, and called to Lennox, who still stood in the doorway.  "Lennox!  Bring the keys to this cell."  Lennox nodded, and signalled to the marines.  They tromped up the stairs, leaving James, Stella, two marines, and the unnamed man in the cell with Stella.

"Did Lord Beckett permit my departure?" Stella asked quietly, sounding hopeful and doubtful at once.

"Damn Lord Beckett," James dismissed.  "I'm your husband, and I say that you're leaving.  We'll have some time before Beckett knows... I'll find a safe place for you until we know how he'll react.  If he's reasonable, I will bring you back to Jamaica.  If not, then you'll stay hidden."

"Hidden where?" Stella asked, arching a brow and looking more like her old self.

"I haven't quite decided that yet," James admitted, stepping closer in an effort to keep their discourse private.  "Is there no one—"

"No," Stella said, shaking her head.  "There is no one.  Tia is in Singapore.  Isaac is part of the fleet.  Anne and Caroline live in Port Royal.  My family won't acknowledge me.  I have no one."

"Then you'll have to go to England, to my family," James sighed.  He only hoped they would take her in, but they had no other choice.

"The voyage to England is long," Stella pointed out softly.  "On an ocean controlled by Beckett.  I wouldn't make it.  And then he'd kill you for your disobedience."

"The old guard is behind me," James replied, sliding a hand through the bars of the cell and resting it on Stella's thin shoulder.  "If he kills me, he looses the loyalty of the navy."

"And if he but sets you up to be killed?" Stella asked, shivering.  "if he does it right, he binds the navy closer to him."  She shivered again, and compulsively stepped even closer, pressing herself against the bars in an effort to come nearer to him.   "No, we can't risk it."

"Stella," James said quietly, "the Greek Fire is worth nothing if you're not alive to cook it."

"Nor is there any point to cooking it if you're not alive to see it burn," she returned, just as quiet.  She looked up at him, and her control slipped for a moment.

And in that moment, James knew.

Davy Jones had been right.  Stella was in love with him.

There was no time to process this revelation, since Lennox returned with a ring of large iron keys.  James and Stella stepped away from each other as the Captain of the _Fearless_ opened the door, whose hinges squealed in protest.

"Good day, Mrs. Norrington," Lennox said politely, though he couldn't hide the horror in his voice at beholding the manner in which Stella was quartered.  "How do you do?"

"Captain Lennox.  It's a pleasure, as always," Stella said, smiling.  Her composure wasn't all that it might be, but she still managed to carry across the impression of a society lady.  "I'm afraid I’m not quite well."

James stepped through and took a closer look at his wife's living quarters—and at her bunkmate, such as he was.  The crewman was sprouting coral on his shoulders and had a starfish and a variety of molluscs growing on his face.  There was something familiar about him, something James couldn’t quite put his finger one.  Perhaps it was just the virulent, venomous glare the "man" had fixed on him—God knows James had received enough of those in his lifetime.

Dismissing the crewman from his thoughts, James turned back to Stella, who was still chatting with Lennox.  He tapped his subordinate on the shoulder.  "A moment, if you please," he asked quietly.

Lennox nodded.  "Aye, sir.  Shall I have the men bring Mrs. Norrington's things down?" he asked, saluting.

"No, not yet," James dismissed.

"You brought me presents?" Stella asked, smiling a little, as Lennox retreated, leaving the two of them a bit of privacy.

"Yes.  Madame d'Ascoyne and Miss Witcher sent you several gifts as well."

"Do tell them thank you.  They are very good friends."

"Who is that?" James asked, jerking his chin towards the coral-bedecked crewman in the corner.  He was confused and suspicious when he saw Stella's already-pale face go even paler, and her hair twitch nervously.  Was the man in the corner a spy for Jones?  Had he harmed her?

Some of his worries were assuaged when Stella merely replied, "Another friend.  He, too, suffers Jones' displeasure, and remains in the brig as punishment.  He is the only being on board who has shown me any kindness at all."

James turned to address the starfish-man.  "Then you have my thanks, sailor," he called, nodding.

"Only the heartless are unmoved by her," was what the man replied, shrugging his coral-festooned shoulders a little.  His voice was hoarse, but grew more intent as his pale blue eyes moved to Stella.  "I do what I can for her comfort."

"And that means more to me than you will ever know," Stella said quietly, turning to meet the man's eyes.  They shared something—a moment of communion—and though James couldn't see Stella's face, he could see the crewman's.

The sailor was in love with Stella.

James felt tired, suddenly—Stella in love with him, this man in love with Stella, himself still in love with absent, lost Elizabeth Swann, Lord Beckett with an axe over them all... it was an absolute muddle.

"Does he have a name?" James asked, breaking the moment.  "Perhaps I might get Jones to relent in his anger, or provide some other benefit."

"I wasn't kind to her for profit," the crewman snapped hoarsely.  "I ask no reward, save her own well-being."

"Bill," Stella chided gently, turning back to James with her lips twisting sardonically.  "There is little that may be done to stay the Captain's anger, and no good will come of mentioning Bill's kindness to me.  Indeed, Jones will take it as a suggestion to be more unkind, and cause pain to us both," she said, shaking her head.  "Perhaps a proper introduction.  Bill, may I present my husband, Admiral James Norrington.  James, my friend, called Bootstrap Bill.  I'm not sure why, but that is his name."

Bill just nodded, before subsiding back into the corner.  "Take her away from this," he said, voice sounding hollow.  "This ship will kill her. Take her away."

The misery in Bill's voice was telling, and James was now even more certain that the man was in love with his wife.  He couldn't fault that, he supposed, especially since Bill apparently loved her enough to want her safe and elsewhere.  And James supposed that was another form of commentary on how unhealthy this environment was.

"There, you see?" James said, taking Stella's shoulders and drawing her near.  "Even he agrees with me.  You have to leave, Stella.  For the child.  For me."

"If I do that, I condemn you to death," she hissed back frantically.  "If I vanish, your life is forfeit.  Beckett will kill you to get me back.  And if not you, then Isaac.  He'll leave a trail of bodies in his search for me, and I cannot be party to it."  She was trembling fiercely now, like a leaf in the wind.  "I want to leave.  I want so much to leave.  But if I do, it means the death of my husband or my brother.  I cannot be that selfish.  Do not ask it of me.  Do not, please!"

James was shocked to see that she was near tears, and he drew her close and cradled her against his chest.  She felt so very frail.  "It's all right, Starling," he soothed quietly.  "It's all right."

"It's not all right," she mumbled into his chest, clutching at his arms with her bony fingers.  "Oh, God, it's not all right.  How did it go so wrong?"

"I'm so sorry, Starling," he breathed into her hair, which was falling slowly out of its high-class style and winding around his arms.  "Let me take you away," James entreated.  "I'll send you to my family in England.  You'll be safe there."

"That is not a viable plan," Stella bit out.  "Your family doesn't even like you.  One life for another... it's not a good trade."

"One life for two," James corrected, resting his hand on her pregnant belly.

"What life will she have without her father?" Stella retorted.  "What kind of life can I give her, without you to protect us?  I swore I would give my child a better than the one I had—how shall I do that if you're not there?"

"I would have you give her any life at all!" James snapped.  "If you die, so does she!"

"And if you die, you leave us to the wolves!" Stella shrieked, before visibly calming herself and lowering her voice.  "If I do as you ask, and flee to England, your life is forfeit.  Isaac's life is forfeit.  Beckett will even go after Anne and the Witchers in order to bring me back.  If I resist, he'll track me down.  Me, and our daughter.  We'll live the life of fugitives, hunted down like dogs.  Beckett won't stop until he catches us.  And that is no life.  To say nothing of what happens if he finds us."  Her whole body quivered with fear and revulsion, and she dug her fingers into his arms.  "James, it's poor gamble.  The odds are against us.  Beckett guaranteed our lives if I stay here.  I have to trust that.  I have to, there's nothing else!"

"Stella," James said seriously, tilting her chin up so she met his eyes.  Her eyes were swimming with tears, and as he watched, one escaped her lashes to trail down her cheek.  "Stella, you can't stay here."  Her pointed chin was still set stubbornly, and her black eyes were adamant.  She would do nothing to endanger his life, even if it meant her own death.

It really was true, then: she was in love with him.

"If you love me..." James added quietly, not adverse to a bit of emotional manipulation to get her to safety. "Stella, if you love me, do as I ask and come away."

She stiffened in his hold, going very still.  James suddenly knew he'd mishandled the situation.

Stella stepped back, staring up at him with unvarnished horror shining in her eyes.  "He told you," she whispered.  Then her expression turned savage and sneering.  "Of course he told you.  He delights in causing pain—especially to me."

"He did say something," James admitted.  "I didn't believe him until... until you—"

She interrupted him, laughing bitterly, sounding more like a crow cawing than ever before.  "Gave myself away, did I?  Strange, how sometimes we bring that which we fear most down on our own heads through avoidance of.  'Yet events will still unfold, for all my silence.'  I wish I'd understood before."  She wrapped her arms around her middle and stepped further back into the darkness of the cell.

James followed her, reaching a hand out.  "Stella—"

"Don't!" she cried, then calmed.  "Do you understand now?  Why I can't leave?"  She laughed again, and it was more like a sob.  "Beckett hung the sword of Damocles over my head, but I gave him the knife to cut it.  I'm tied down, now, and I've only myself to blame."

The despair in her voice made him feel awful.  He had made her despair.  It was like having accidentally put a bullet through a stained glass window: something beautiful had been destroyed, however unintentionally.  Loving him had put her in this situation, and he had nothing to give her in return.  Nothing but peril and pain.

"I'm sorry," James whispered.  Sorry he brought her to this, sorry he couldn't save her... sorry he couldn't love her.  But his heart had been given away long ago.

His apology seemed to make Stella angrier, and she advanced on him with a furious light in her black eyes.  "Don't you dare pity me," she snarled, jabbing him with a bony finger.  "I've taken much from many people but I've never accepted their pity, and I will never accept yours!" she hissed.  Then she seemed to deflate a little, and retreated back into the shadows.  "Especially not in lieu of that which I would rather have."

She couldn't even say the word, could only make veiled references.  Loving him was making her more miserable than anything Beckett could do to her.  "I would give you my love if I could," James said helplessly.

"But you won't," she said dully, leaning against the bulkhead.

"Can't," he correctly gently.

"Won't," she corrected in turn.  "No one makes you love Elizabeth Swann."

That pricked his temper a little.  "I can't just stop loving her!" he protested sharply.  "It's something in me, something rooted so deep I can't unmake it.  Do you think I want to feel this way, want to pine after a woman I'll never see again, and can never have if I do?  I assure you, Madam, I don't.  I carry a torch for her only because someone tied it to my hand.  But I can't stop loving her.  I... can't," he finished weakly.

"I know," Stella whispered after a moment.  "I do.  I married you knowing it.  But I thought I was safe... I forgot to guard myself.  I forgot, and now I reap the benefits of my inattention."  She sagged against the wall.  "I have no one to blame but myself."

They stood there in the darkness, the physical distance between them miniscule when compared to the metaphysical chasms now dividing them.  Stella stood in the deepest shadows, arms shielding herself, cringing away from her own emotions; James stood near the open door, an imploring hand held uselessly down by his side, staring at his wife with pity in his eyes, despite her disgust for that particular sentiment.

James broke the heavy silence first.  "You can still leave with me," he offered quietly.

"No, I can't," she returned, just as quiet.

"Won't," James corrected sourly.

"Better the devil you know," Stella said, shrugging her thin shoulders.  "If we allow Beckett this... petty torment, he won't think of something worse."

"And if this 'petty torment' gets you and our child killed?" James asked coldly.

"It won't.  Beckett finds me useful and will keep me alive.  In pain and miserable, perhaps, but alive.  Whereas your defiance would kill us all," Stella retorted icily.

He sighed.  "I cannot convince you, can I?"

"We need to keep to the plan.  Bring down Beckett.  Only then will we be safe."

"And until then, you must suffer such pain?" he challenged.

"Life is pain," Stella replied dully.  "Anyone who tells you differently is selling something."  She darted a swift glance up to his face, and then looked away, flinching a little.  "I can't be near you right now," she admitted softly.

James sighed.  "Is there anything I can do for you?  Anything I can give you that you won't scorn?"

"You know what it is I want most," Stella whispered.  The words ' _your heart'_ fell into the silence between them.  But she soldiered gamely on.  "But if you could perhaps convince Jones to let me out into the sunlight occasionally?  And order the captains who come to bring me more food... send me some clothing that isn't worn to shreds and will continue to fit as I increase in size..."

"I will see it done," he promised her.  He moved forward a little, as if to touch her, but she cringed backwards, skittering away.  James sighed, but called for Lennox to bring down the crates of Stella's gifts, and as the marines did that, gestured to his wife and her companion.  "Come.  We're going to talk to Jones."

Stella allowed him to help her up the stairs, though when she lifted her skirts he could see that her stockings were torn, and could see the bruises on her legs.  And when he took her arm to steady her steps, she winced and hissed in pain—more bruises?  Jones and his crew were not handling her very gently.  Stella's Bootstrap Bill followed them up tentatively, as if he was unsure of the permissibility of leaving the cell.

When they emerged onto the deck, both Stella and Bill flinched, and shielded their eyes from the sun; Stella's thin fingers tightened around his arm as she was led out onto the deck, and he could feel her trembling.  Jones and the rest of his crew was gathered on the deck, near the mainmast, glowering at the marines that surrounded them.  They glared even more virulently as James stepped forward, trailing his wife and the disgraced of their number.

"A word, Captain Jones," James called firmly.

Reluctantly, the captain stumped forward and glared at the Admiral.  "What?" he demanded, tone surly.

"Your keeping of my wife is much to be desired," James returned coolly.  He displayed Stella's skinny, bruise-mottled arm.

"I can't help it if the wretch is clumsy," Jones shrugged.  "Nor can I do aught if your men don't bring her enough food."

"You can let her out of that damp cell once in a while," James replied  sternly.  "You can provide her with a measure more water.  You can otherwise leave her alone.  Make your crew do the same."

"That'd be difficult, considering she shares quarters with Master Turner," Jones snorted, pointing his claw at Bill, who was still standing behind Stella.

James felt cold, suddenly, as though someone had just dropped ice down his back.  Turner.  Bill.  Bill Turner.  Bill was short for William.  William Turner.  Stella had been sharing a cell with a William Turner.

He turned shocked eyes to his wife, beside him, and saw the discomfort on her face, the apology in her dark eyes when she turned to look at him.  That confirmed it.  Somehow, this William Turner and the William Turner James knew were related.  Perhaps this was Will Turner's father—it would explain the resemblance, which James could pick out now that he was looking for it.  And she'd known.  She'd known and she hadn't told him.

He felt betrayed.

"Don't be deliberately obtuse, Captain," James heard himself saying, as though from a long way away.  "You know full well what I mean."  He swallowed heavily, and turned back to Jones, though he remained uncomfortably aware of the Turner's presence at his back.  "Rest assured that Lord Beckett will be hearing about your treatment of one of our most important assets."  And he felt perversely satisfied when he felt Stella's minute flinch.

"Lord Beckett should take more care where he puts his things," Jones sneered in return.

"Nevertheless, you have your orders," James snapped back.  "Mrs. Norrington is not to be harmed.  Don't lay a hand on her.  And for God's sake, keep her better than you have previously."

"How so?" Jones asked, glancing up at down at the frail figure at James' side.

James rolled his eyes.  "Has it been so long that you've forgotten how to treat a woman?" he asked sarcastically.  "Or did those remembrances get cut out along with your heart?"

Jones growled a little, down in his chest.  "Your puling, ice-hearted bitch is nothing like a real woman," he spat.

He took little pleasure in Stella's wince, this time.  "Mind your tongue," James said sharply.  "Your expectations of women aside, your orders are to keep her alive and well.  I will be monitoring the situation, rest assured.  Now, are there no other quarters for her?"

"Nowhere I expect she'd feel safe," Jones replied.  The words ' _and with good reason'_ hung in the air, unsaid.

"He's right," Stella agreed quietly.  "I'd rather remain in the brig.  At least there I can ensure that I will notice their approach.  The cell keeps me in, but it also keeps them out."

"Fine," James acquiesced grumpily.  "The brig will suffice for living quarters.  But put him in a separate cell," he commanded, gesturing at Turner.

Jones seemed to understand James' motivation, and was grinning maliciously as he dug in his heels and prepared to be difficult.  "I'm afraid the other cells don't lock, Admiral," he said, sounding only vaguely apologetic.

"Then keep him anywhere else," James ground out through clenched teeth.

"James!" Stella whispered, horrified.  "Jones could put him in the bilges with an order like that."  Her voice grew even more quiet.  "Please, don't punish him for the sins of his son."

"I don't want him near you," he replied, voice just as quiet.

"He's the only one on this ship you can trust with my safety," Stella pointed out.

"Because he's in love with you," James accused.

Her eyes grew sad.  "I know," she murmured.  "But not truly.  I'm all that connects him to the outside world, and he clings to me because of it.  He loves me as symbol, but not as a person."

"That doesn't exactly reassure me."

"Do you think so little of me, then, to think I would hurt you so?  That I would take up with anyone of the surname 'Turner'?  Or that I would prove so false to my marriage vows?" she challenged, her chin lifting with a hint of her usual pride.  Then she softened.  "James, trust me."

James sighed unhappily, but turned back to Jones.  "Belay that," he ordered.  "Quarters shall remain as they are.  However, once every day, Mrs. Norrington is to be allowed an hour of time on the deck.  I will see to it that her provisions are increased, and you are to deliver them to her, untouched.  Is that clear, Captain Jones?"

"Perfectly, Admiral," the squid-man-amalgamation bit off.  Then he smirked cruelly.  "I guess you do love her, after all."

Stella flinched, and James winced inwardly.  But outwardly, he just smiled tightly and said nothing but, "Dismissed, Captain."

Most of the crew dispersed after that, vanishing back to wherever they wished as the marines prepared to depart.  Some of the sailors brought the crates of Stella's gifts down to the brig, and Turner receded into the shadows of the walkways... though keeping his pale blue eyes always on Stella.

And as the activity bustled around them, James drew Stella into the shadow of the forecastle for some private conversation.  "Why didn't you tell me?" was the first thing he demanded of her.

"I couldn't think of a good way to introduce it," Stella mumbled.  "I... hadn't intended you to find out."

"Because that's so much better!" he hissed.  "God's blood, Stella, you know how I feel about... about..."

"About anyone called William Turner?" she offered sarcastically.

"He's his father!" James snapped, gesturing fiercely at Bill.

"And he never did anything to you," she snapped back.

"I don't want him near you."

"You don't have a choice!"  Stella apparently saw something in him, since she rolled her eyes and said, more quietly, "He's not going to steal me, you idiot."

"He's a pirate.  Pirates steal things," James demurred darkly.

Stella's voice went as cold and hard as stone.  "I'm not a thing."

James had a feeling he was doing what he'd sworn not to do: putting his foot in his mouth and making a muddle of the whole thing.  He sighed heavily, and ran a hand across his face.  "Stella..."

"You might consider trusting me, you know," she said, her voice still knife-sharp and icy.

"Because your judgement has been so very acute lately," he sniped.

Stella flinched, as if struck, and James knew the foot had been inserted up to his knee, now.  "That isn't fair," she whispered.

"Unfair, but just," James replied coldly.  "Your choices have been increasingly questionable of late."

"Forgive me for wanting my family to come through this ordeal unharmed!" she cried, drawing away and staring at him as though she'd never seen him before.

"And yet you always get what you want at the end of it," James said bitterly.  He'd thought he'd put his anger at her to rest, but apparently he hadn't.  He'd just buried it for a time, and Stella's constant needling unearthed it.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded, sneering.

"You wanted to see this ship.  You wanted to study it—well," he said, gesturing scornfully, "here you are, just as you wanted."

"Beckett ordered it," Stella said stiffly.

James scoffed.  "You didn't protest very much!"

"The last time I defied Beckett's orders I found myself fighting off a Kraken in a hurricane!" she spat.  "I don't want to tempt fate."

"Technically, that was my defiance," James pointed out tartly. "Haven't you learned yet?  Defiance is punished with a strike at the other.  And in everything that has ever happened, nothing ill has ever befallen me."

"Perhaps because I don't antagonise the man with the axe over my neck," she said through clenched teeth.

"And why is that?" he challenged.  "Why not risk something?  Are you that much of a coward?"

Stella lifted her black eyes to his, then, and they were swimming with tears.  Her expression was one of deep pain, and James suddenly felt like a complete and utter ass.  "Do you not know?" she whispered.

James stepped away, and closed his eyes, sighing deeply.  "I’m sorry, Starling," he apologised.

"It's not entirely your fault," she said dully.  All the life had gone out of her voice, and he opened his eyes to see her standing, defeated, hunching in on herself.  "I showed too much to Jones.  I should have known he'd use it against me the first chance he got."

"Why did you do it?  How did he know?" James wondered.  Stella played things so close to the vest all the time—what possessed her to tell Davy Jones her secrets?

She closed her eyes, and buried her face in her hands.  "I had to, to save their lives," she confessed, voice muffled.  Before James could inquire for further information, the whole story burst out of her, like a flood.  "Oh God, James, he was killing them before my eyes.  He'd bring me on deck and slaughter the crew of the ships he took right before my eyes.  He made me watch—if I didn't watch, he'd torture them until I looked," she said frantically.  "The first time he offered me a chance—I could save five men for five truthful answers—I took it, of course I took it.  And one of them was a boy—a little boy, James, I couldn't let him die.  I answered his questions and he let them go.  The next time, I was allowed to save four, then three, then two... I couldn't save more than 20 men. Just a handful of dust, snatched from the jaws of oblivion.  Or the little Dutch boy, plugging the dyke with his thumb.  It was... it was some way to salvage something—anything—from so much death."  She took a shuddering, sobbing breath.

So, that was what had happened.  That was what Davy Jones did to reduce Stella to this—continuous shock, and a relentless assault on her sense of compassion (which, though hidden, was easily touched in a small variety of ways), followed by a promise of a reprieve which laid her defences bare.  Then plunder her secrets during the parlay and use that information against her later.  Poor Stella.  She had handed that monster the best weapons against her to save men she would never see again.

She was a good woman.  And she deserved better than she was getting.

James couldn't think of anything to say.  He was pitying and appalled and proud and furious all at once. "''Suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope,'" he quoted.  It was all he could think of.

"That isn't comforting, James," Stella growled shakily.

"Is there any comfort to be had?" he demanded.  "Because if you can find some, Stella, please share it.  I could use a measure of comfort myself."

That seemed to make her still, and she took in a deep breath and smiled weakly.  "'It is better to suffer wrong that to do it,'" she offered.

"'Blessed are the meek,'" James returned sarcastically.

They met each others' eyes, and shared brief, sardonic grins.  James and Stella Norrington were many things, but meek was not one of them.  And for that brief moment, it was as though things were back to normal, with no wayward emotions tipping the balance of their marriage.  As though they were just two good friends again, who just happened to be married to each other.

Then the moment passed, and they were left with the reality of the situation.  So much was between them now... James' anger at her acceptance of Beckett's tyranny, especially when it got her something she wanted; Stella's betrayal in concealing the name and family of her bunkmate and the knowledge that Turner Senior loved her; the physical distance between them, instigated by Beckett; their differing viewpoints over the best way to handle the situation, be it compliance or defiance and flight; and the ever-present awareness that Stella was in love, and James wasn't—at least, not with her.

Their time together was winding down—the meetings with the _Dutchman_ were always, at Beckett's command, supposed to be brief, due to Davy Jones' temper—and yet so much was unresolved.  James didn't want to leave her thus—it would make further meetings awkward and uncomfortable, which, aside from being something he didn't want their relationship to deteriorate to, was something they could little afford with Beckett breathing down their necks and what Davy Jones had been aiming for when he first revealed the state of Stella's heart.

But... what else could he do, or say?  This was a situation beyond his ability to remedy.

"I would never have wished any of this on you," James said sorrowfully.  "I've brought you nothing but pain."

Her face turned bitter and wistful.  "We couldn't have known what would happen."  She looked up at him, then, and her black eyes filled with the longing and pain that he knew so well.  " _'_ _Caelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt_ ,'" she whispered.

"'They change the sky, not their soul, who run across the sea,'" James translated automatically, smiling sadly.

She echoed his expression.  "I'll get my notebooks.  Put them with the grimoire back at home.  I'll deal with them when I return," she said bravely.

She vanished back belowdecks, Turner Sr. at her heels.  James glared after him, unsure about how he should be feeling.  On one hand, the man was Will Turner's father, and was in love with his wife; on the other, James knew the man would protect Stella and ensure the least amount of harm possible would come to her.  But James didn't trust him.

Jones could move very quietly when it suited him, and thus James was unpleasantly surprised to realise the Captain of the Dutchman had materialised next to him while he was scowling and brooding about the presence of William Turner, Sr. in such close proximity to his wife.

"Yes, Captain?" James inquired testily.

"Trouble in paradise?" he asked, striking a match to light his pipe.

"If there were, do you think I'd tell you?" James scoffed scornfully. "It's what you want, isn't it?  She and I at odds?"

The captain of the Dutchman shrugged, inhaling deeply and blowing smoke out the side of his face.  "You'll be at odds with her eventually," he commented.  "That's how it is with women—treacherous, lying creatures, the lot of them."

"Some of us espouse a more optimistic philosophy, Captain," James replied sourly.

Jones snorted.  "You'll see, eventually.  She'll betray you... if she hasn't already," he added, jerking his pipe to where Stella and Turner Senior were re-emerging onto the deck.

James' glare could have started Jones on fire, had he any powers at all.  "Thank you, Captain," he said repressively, his tone a clear dismissal.  Jones smirked a little, but turned and stumped away after a glower at Stella, which she returned with a sneer.

"Here.  Take good care of them," Stella requested worriedly, handing a pair of small, worn notebooks into his hands.

"I will, I promise," he assured her, tucking the books into his coat.

"Thank you," she said, looking very small.

"You don't need to thank me," James replied, feeling rather awkward.  There was so much he wanted to say to her... but he wasn't sure how to say it, or if she'd understand what he was trying to convey, nor could he be sure that it wouldn't be overheard and reported to Davy Jones.

So he said the only thing he could: "Goodbye, Starling."

James turned only once to look back at the _Dutchman_ as the _Fearless_ sailed away, and saw her slight figure at the rail, watching him go.  Turner Senior was at her side, and Jones was looming behind them both.  Bitterly, he turned away.   She chose this, and part of him was glad—how terrible awkward would it be to have her with him now, knowing that she loved him and that he didn't love her in return.  It had become the elephant in the room with them, and he wasn't sure how to see around it.

But no voice came to him on the breeze, and no strong winds filled their sails, and James felt himself missing her, and the easy friendliness they'd once had, unmarred by more tender feelings.

 _Sometimes our choices are no choices at all,_ he thought. _Beckett has us all over a barrel.  And Jones got what he wanted: a wedge has been driven between Stella and I, and I have no idea how to remove it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _So yeah, there's that chapter. Most of the cards are on the table now, and it's now just a measure of moving the cards around. Sort of... that metaphor isn't a very good metaphor. I'll think of a better one, later. But I feel so bad for both Norringtons—I know what it is to be in love with someone who doesn't love you, and I know what it is to wish more than anything that you can just stop thinking of them, and reacting when you see them, but being completely unable, and the only way to get over it is to get away from them, and even then the remembrance creeps up on you at weird times until you just want to dig them out of you with a spoon._
> 
>  
> 
> _...Yeah. So I know where both James and Stella are coming from. And it sucks really, really bad._
> 
>  
> 
> _The quote, "Yet events will still unfold, for all my silence" is from Oedipus Rex and spoken by Tiresias the Prophet. The quotes about suffering come from Romans 5:3-4 and Dr. Samuel Johnson, respectively. There is also another quote in here from one of my favourite movies._


	33. Stella Aestorum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which civility is the last refuge of the damned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Hi everyone.
> 
> Sorry, I'm shite at remembering to post things.  I do this occasionally--just sort of vanish for a few years--before remembering to return.  But enough people asked when it would be finished, so that sort of prodded me into remembering that yeah, I needed to do that.  So here are more chapters.
> 
> Also!  This chapter was still composed in China, in 2008 or 2009, so here's the author's note from that time.
> 
>   _A/N: here is chapter 32!  Blimey, this thing is getting long!  And the update came fairly quickly, I guess—this is because I still cannot get at my bank account, due to the lack of passport.  Having no money, I can't really go anywhere or do anything, which allows me to stay at home and write all weekend.  Whee._
> 
>  
> 
> _Note: there is a nod in here to another fandom I adore.  It is not subtle.  Ten points to the first person who spots it!_

And so life marched on.  Stella remained on the _Flying Dutchman_ , ostensibly monitoring Davy Jones, but in reality being tormented by him; James remained in Port Royal, commanding the fleet and leading the Greek Fire conspiracy on the side.

Captain Henry Lennox of the _Fearless_ had fallen in with the conspirators immediately after returning from the _Dutchman_ , saying "That's the final straw—it's barbaric, what he's doing to that poor woman.  Whatever you've got up your sleeve, count me in."  That put the entire naval faction of Beckett's armada—50 ships and captains in all, with crews tried and tested—solidly behind Admiral Norrington.  The East India Trading Company ships—merchant shippers, most of them—were on the fence; Lord Beckett was one of the directors of their company, but he was pulling away from their usual business (i.e. making money through trade) and had them part of a fleet meant to fight pirates.  None of the merchants were happy about that—they were businessmen, not fighters.  The naval faction was working on that discontent, but gently.  They were still Company men.  The third group of ships and captains were... well, not worth it, yet.  These were the ships that had once been pirate ships, but had been reassigned to the armada.  The problem was, not many of them had crews or captains.  They were just... ships.

Beckett had suggested that they split the navy's crews... promote the first lieutenants to captains, split the crews and make them up with recruits from merchant ships.  Admiral Norrington had told him that would be a topping idea, if he wanted a fleet comprised entirely of incredibly fumbling, incompetent ships as opposed to half a fleet of good, seasoned ships and a steep learning curve for the rest.  Beckett had then said that he didn't appreciate the Admiral's sarcasm, that he would think about the issues raised and get back to the Admiral about crewing the ships—his decision would be final, by the way—and how was Mrs. Norrington faring nowadays?

James had then gone and ranted at Theodore Groves for a good hour about bloody, sodding Cutler Beckett, and how he had no idea about how things were supposed to be done, and he didn't want a single one of them to have an iota of power or even of rational, independent thought, and what was the point of being an Admiral if he wouldn't let James command, and that using Mrs. Norrington as insurance on the Admiral's good behaviour was the height of dishonour, and that James' temper was growing very, very short and that one day he'd snap and run the little bastard through.

Groves had winced and soothed in the appropriate places, and after he took the Admiral to the gentleman's club in Port Royal and let him pick a fight with Isaac Bell.  Isaac, who had never warmed to his brother-in-law and still resented him for not only marrying his sister but also for not loving her and therefore (to his mind) leaving her on the _Flying Dutchman_ , didn't require much goading, and the two officers retired to the alley and hit each other for a while.

Eventually they worked off their tension and stopped fighting, at which point they collected Theodore Groves and retired to the Norrington house.  (James had a bloody nose and Isaac a blooming black eye, but they were able to be reasonably civil to each other for the next hour.)

"I can't believe you left her there," Isaac muttered, sitting in his sister's favourite chair in her parlour.

James glared at him.  "Shut up, Isaac!"

Reasonably civil was all they ever managed.

"Lennox is on board," James said, and Theodore added his name to the list (in code, and which would be burned at the end of the tête-à-tête).

Theirs was a conspiracy without much paperwork.

"I've been courting one of the East India merchants," Isaac added.  "He's spitting mad about being press-ganged into this—lost a year's profit.  He'd sell his soul to the devil to get Beckett out of his hair, and get back to business."

"What's his name?" Theodore asked, quill poised over the "maybe" column.

"Reynolds, and he captains the _Serenity_..."

James left Theodore and Isaac to their scheming and turned the current conundrum around in his mind—even if Beckett obviously didn't want him asking questions or intruding in the matter at all, James was still curious about how he intended to crew the ships.  After all, James would be commanding those ships (hopefully) in battle; he would like to know who he was commanding, and if they could be swayed to the Greek Fire.

Beckett couldn't break up the crews of the existent ships—well, he could, but it would sow too much ill-will and was a stupid idea anyway.  The crews of the navy ship were all navy men, bound together by shared duty and military discipline.  They were experienced... or, if not experienced, were surrounded by enough of it for inexperience to evaporate quickly.  The merchant crews were just that: merchant crews, ill-suited for a swift switch into more martial pursuits—and anyway, they too were inexpert and would be unhappy should Beckett break them up.  There just weren't enough men in Jamaica to crew all those ships.  So, where was Beckett going to get the men?

He could go and press-gang French, Spanish, or Dutch sailors (or order press-ganged... and who would be doing the actual dirty work?  James Norrington, of course), but there was the problem of both the language barrier and the fact that unwilling men were poor workers.  Besides, the diplomatic issues that would case would hopefully make that course of action entirely not worth it.  They were fighting pirates as a whole; they didn't need increased hostilities with the other powers in these waters.

...Of course, in all likelihood, Beckett would turn on them eventually.

Still, one thing at a time.

So, what was Beckett going to do in order to crew his ships?

James was suddenly aware that Theodore was trying to get his attention.  "Yes?" he asked, looking up.

"I realise you haven't been spending much time with the merchant sector of the armada, but do you know of anyone that we might approach?" the Captain of the _Endeavour_ asked.

He shook his head.  "None personally.  Perhaps Isaac's man Reynolds might suggest someone?"

"I'll talk to him," Isaac offered.

"We have to move as quickly and safely as we can," James warned.  "Time is running out.  I believe we have a month... perhaps a bit more... before Mercer returns."

"How do you know?" Isaac challenged.  "Did Stelly tell you that?"

"No.  Well, after a fashion," James admitted.  "I had a dream... repeatedly.  She once told me to be open to my instincts, and I figured that a repeating dream must be trying to tell me something... especially since it was a wolf eating the moon and then putting out the stars," he muttered.

Theodore grimaced.  "That sounds... off-putting."

"It was."

"So, a month," Isaac said, bringing them back around to the topic of conversation.   "Do you think we can convert at least 15 more captains?  That would make our numbers roughly half of the armada."

"Perhaps we might swell our numbers, but Beckett keeps adding to them with the new ships," James pointed out.  "I don't know how he intends to crew them, though.  He does not gladly or easily share any information about his plans... despite the fact that I am ostensibly commanding his armada."

"I don't think he encourages independent thought in his subordinates," Theodore grumbled.

"I would have to agree with that," James concurred dryly.  "I don't think he encourages independent thought at all.  He wants us all as mindless puppets.  I'm not sure how much longer I'll be able to play a puppet, though.  I’m within a hair's-breadth of snapping," he muttered.

"Then just tell him to sod off," Isaac shrugged, paging through one of Stella's books—Cicero's _De Divinatione_ , in whose later pages was recorded an entire written conversation between Edward and Eleanor, her parents.

James snorted.  "Yes, I can imagine that interaction.  'Sod off, Lord Beckett,'" he said, mimicking Isaac's lazy tones.  "At which point he gives me a completely deadpan look and has your sister flogged."

That sobered Isaac up quickly, and he frowned viciously, tracing the faded handwriting in the book.  "I can't believe you left her there," he muttered again.

Theodore fidgeted uncomfortably as a sheet of ice froze over James' green eyes, and the two officers—brothers—prepared to fight it out again.

"I had no choice," James bit out.  "She wouldn't leave."

"Then you should have picked her up and carried her out!" Isaac snapped.

James spared a moment to laugh incredulously at that suggestion.  "We are speaking of the same woman, are we not?" he asked dryly.  "Would you dare to do such a thing to her?"

Isaac muttered a bit, but eventually admitted, "No.  She'd hex me."

"Then please, Isaac, let me hear nothing more of it," he requested tiredly.  "The surest way to get her to safety is to being down Lord Beckett.  It was her wish that we bend our energies thusly, so we may as well do so.  There is precious little else was can do for her," he grumbled, sotto voice.

"Is there no higher authority to whom we might appeal?" Theodore wondered.  "Can we not write to the Court of Directors at the East India Company?  Can we not write to the Admiralty, or the King?"

James shook his head grimly.  "No.  Beckett has squashed communication to that sector.  Governor Swann attempted to send a letter to the king at the beginning of this debacle, but Mercer intercepted it, murdered the captain, and imprisoned Swann.   And though the latter is not generally known, the murder of Captain Hawkins is, and few have been willing to chance it since."

"Mercer isn't here," Isaac noted.

"Yes, but have you noticed the distinct lack of any ships departing for England during Mercer's absence, save those which are loyal to Beckett?" James inquired tartly, raising an eyebrow.  "I have.  Beckett has us locked down.  All that gets out is that which he wishes.  Ask Caroline d'Ascoyne about it—she waxes most eloquent about the subject."  Given a loose definition of 'eloquent' that included nearly frothing at the mouth, anyway.

"How is he getting away with this!?" Theodore cried indignantly.

"Power, influence, and money," James replied.  "That's her theory, anyway."  'Her' was obviously Stella, but James was hesitant to utter her name, as if not speaking those two syllables would make him forget that which he would rather not know.

"So... what?  We're stuck, then?" Theodore asked unhappily.

"Yes," James said.  "The Greek Fire seems to be the only hope of justice in this matter... and isn't that a sad commentary in and of itself?"

 

* * *

 After James had left the _Dutchman_ , Stella had returned to the brig with Bootstrap Bill and quietly imploded.

The peace from Jones' haranguing that James had given her was a godsend, and she spent three days nursing her wounds and speaking but little.  Even Bill allowed her some distance.

She drew inside, floating on the breezes of her own thoughts and ignoring the outside world.  She tried so hard to shove everything back in the box at the back of her mind, but the constant harassment had weakened her control considerably, and it was a struggle simply to keep the box extant.  She was therefore left to confront her feelings as they were—something she had never done before.  She had always consigned her emotions to that box in the back of her mind, and only taken them out—if she ever took them out—when she could regard them with detachment and rationality.  Being buffeted around in a storm of her own feelings was hellish.

So she made a promise to herself: one day, when she was away from this ship and had the time to do it, she was going to go into that box, and take everything out of it, and lay it to rest.  She knew some of the demons that lurked in the shadows—her grief at her father's passing, which she had never truly addressed; her fury at Sarah, her father's wife, and Sarah's part in throwing her mother and herself off Antigua; her first heartbreak, in which the object of her affections did nothing to help her after her father's death, nor did he even bother to bid her farewell when she left; her despair at her mother's death; and her anger and bitterness at Tia for not bringing Eleanor back.

But those things could wait—some had waited more than a decade, and could bide a little longer.  Time had worn down their knives' edges.

However, present day pains were still sharp.  The horror accompanying the deaths of so many men—pirates or no, they died like the righteous on the decks of a devil's ship—rose like bile in the back of her throat at the strangest times, and haunted her dreams nearly every night.  Hunger had ceased to be a gnawing pain in her stomach, and the Dutchman's crew had stopped harming her every time she left the brig, and Davy Jones left her alone, but the cold fear of her own mortality had seeped very deep in her bones, and sometimes it slid like an icy knife into her gut, leaving her shaking. And the knowledge that James didn't love her, yet knew she loved him and pitied her for it was a stabbing pain that lived with her nearly moment of every day.

It was made so much worse by Bill's presence, which was so like a reflection of her own situation that she was forced to understand where James was coming from.  While Turner the Elder's love for her was one-dimensional and unrealistic, it was real enough to him, existing as he was in this emotional desert.  But Stella knew she couldn't give him what he wanted—she was not only married to someone else and living while Bill was good-as-dead, but she could not give him her heart.  It already belonged wholly and completely to someone else.  Bill knew it, the same as she did, and it hurt him, a little.  Stella knew he hurt, and pitied him.  And she was horrified and ashamed at herself for feeling it, for she knew he did not want it from her any more than she wanted it from James.  But it seemed to be a knee-jerk reaction.

What a coil it was!  She knew how Bill felt, and she knew how James felt, and here she was in the middle of the two of them, with the love of one and the pity of the other.  _'We but see through a glass darkly'_ indeed, and her mind was opened with an understanding of both sides of the issue that she did not want.  It was so hard to pull herself together without the fuel of anger... and anger was something this understanding had left her unable to muster up.

At least she'd stopped fraying at the seams.  Now that Jones had been ordered to let her alone... and complied... mostly... she had managed to halt her downward spiral.  On the fourth day, as she was preparing for her hour of time on the deck (usually during the brightest, hottest part of the day; Jones did love those little inconveniences), she murmured, " _Nunc iam illa non vult: tu quoque impotens noli, nec quae fugit sectare, nec miser vive, sed obstinata mente perfer, obdura_."

She'd taken to quoting poetry and philosophy to herself in the days since James' departure, as a way of soothing herself.  Apparently her mood had lightened visibly enough that Bill felt comfortable enough to ask her about it.  "What language is that?"

"Latin," she replied.  "It's Gaius Valerius Catullus.  Carmen 8."

"I've never heard of him.  What does it mean?" he wondered, picking up her parasol and fiddling with it a little as he approached her.

Stella took a deep breath and began to translate: "'Now she desires no more: do you too, weakling, not desire; and do not chase her who flees, nor live in unhappiness, but harden your heart, endure and stand fast.'"  She smiled wanly at the look of deep sadness that overtook Bill's features (at least, the ones visible around the barnacles and the starfish on his temple), and added, "This is much better than what I was quoting two days ago."

"What was that?" Bill asked, although the sadness didn't quite abate.

"'I would my love could kill thee; I am satiated with seeing thee live, and fain would have thee dead. I would earth had thy body as fruit to eat, and no mouth but some serpent’s found thee sweet,'" Stella quoted, unable to keep the rind of bitterness out of her tone.

"That's a very morbid poem," Bill remarked after a moment, looking shocked.

"It gets much worse," Stella replied cheerfully.  "I must say, it did quite a bit to soothe me."  And indeed it had.  There was something about cursing love (and James) in someone else's poisonous verse that took the sharpest edge off her anguish.

That drew a smile from Bill.  "You are the strangest woman I've ever met."

"Considering that you don't remember most of the women you've ever met, I doubt that says very much," Stella sniffed primly.

Bill, being well acquainted with her occasional snappishness, simply emitted a rusty chuckle and handed over the parasol.  It, like everything else she had on the ship, was much worse for the wear.  She hoped the next rotation would bring her some new clothing, at least—her current dresses wouldn't be able to take the strain of both life on the _Dutchman_ and her increasing pregnancy without falling to pieces.

At five bells (ish—the _Dutchman_ didn't seem to keep strict time) the crewman with the hammerhead's head came down to fetch her for her hour of outdoor time.  He didn't touch her or speak to her or even look at her, and the minute they stepped onto the deck he left her. Stella found this much preferable to the previous method of interaction.

She opened her parasol and adjusted her hat before daintily picking her away across the deck.  The breezes swirled happily around her, rejoicing in her presence out of that stuffy brig.  Stella herself tilted her parasol back and basked in the sunlight, letting its warmth soak into her skin.  Her constitutional meandered the same way every day as she avoided the places on the deck where she had watched the defeated crews die; therefore, it was no surprise that when Davy Jones wanted to be found, he simply waited in her path.

"Witch," was all the greeting she received when she encountered him at the port bow.

"Good afternoon, Captain," she replied.  Civility was the last refuge of the damned.

He stumped along beside her as she continued her walk, but Stella said nothing.  There was nothing she wanted to say to him.  (Well, there was, but she didn't think it would be ladylike, and it might get her thrown overboard.)  Besides, Jones always sought her out for a reason.  He'd be bending her ear with some painful subject sooner or later.  No sense in brining it on any sooner.

Jones waited until they were at the stern before speaking.  "You still love him."

"It isn't as though I can turn it off," Stella drawled sarcastically in return.  "Of course I still love him."

"Even though he doesn't love you?"

This was a tender area of Stella's healing composure, and as such she snapped back, "Did you stop loving her simply because she didn't love you?"

Jones spun, snarling messily, tentacles writhing—the longest nearly slapped her in the face.  The rage in his eyes nearly made her retreat, but for the anguish and pain she saw in him as well.  "That's not the same," he spat at her—literally.

Stella wiped his saliva off her face and raised her chin proudly.  "Is it not?" she challenged.  "Do you think that because I'm a woman I cannot love?"

"Not the way men do," Jones returned.  "You're a false breed, all of you!"

"If we're talking about falsity, do let us speak of the male sex," Stella shot back acidly.  "How many men are faithful to those they wed?  How many stay true to their wedding vows?  How many stay true in general?  Even the good men stray."  Her father was living... well, dead... proof of that.  Edward Bell had been an admirable man in most respects, but he had not been faithful to his wife.

"They only stray because of fickle-hearted women!" Jones roared back.

Stella just released a caw of scornful laughter.  "Your logic leaves something to be desired, Captain," she said coldly.  "I have known many a woman who remained faithful to men who cared but little for them.  Women who sit, alone and neglected, but relentlessly loyal to the very man who ignores them as he cavorts with his mistresses.  Women who are abandoned on land as their husbands desert them to chase the horizon; they think of their husbands daily, while I doubt the same can be said of the reverse.  What of the women who are used and discarded by men who play at love, but want only one thing?  _'_ _By Gis and by Saint Charity,_ _Alack, and fie for shame!_ _Young men will do't, if they come to't;_ _By cock, they are to blame._ _Quoth she, before you tumbled me,_ _You promised me to wed._ _So would I ha' done, by yonder sun,_ _An thou hadst not come to my bed_ ,'" Stella quoted mockingly.  "I have never known a man to stay faithful," she finished quietly. "Not one."

"Then you've not looked hard enough," Jones grumbled, but perhaps a bit less vehemently.

"Whereas you've not looked at all," she snapped.

They were silent for a time, standing at the stern of the ship, hair and beard writhing quietly in unison.  Jones eventually broke the quiet by announcing, "Mayhaps you've got a point, but you're still a wretched creature."

Stella sighed.  "Of course.  Your opponent gains ground and you resort to personal attacks.  Very mature, Captain."

"Poor wretch, did I hurt your feelings?" Jones cooed.  It was a sound he was very ill-suited to make.

"After what you've been calling me for the past six weeks?  Hardly.  I am made of sterner stuff."

"Or you've not a got a heart to wound," Jones added darkly.

"I assure, I have," Stella said icily.  "I couldn't hurt nearly as much as I do now were it lacking."

Jones' beard twitched suddenly, as though he'd been pinched.  "Aye," he agreed, softening a little.  "Horrible pain.  Too much to live with... but not enough to bring death."

"Yes," Stella agreed quietly—suspiciously.  Jones was not soft.  He'd cut that part of him out along with his heart.

He turned to her then, and his electric blue eyes were gleaming strangely.  "I could teach you how," he whispered to her.

Stella couldn't halt the quick gasp that rushed past her lips, nor the dizzying want that swelled up from her toes.  She knew what he was offering to teach her—he was offering the knowledge of how to cut out her own heart.  And she wanted him to teach her how.  She wanted to know, and then write it down in the book.  And part of her desperately wanted to carve that troublesome organ out of her chest.  If it were gone, she wouldn't have to feel these emotions that spun her about and muddled her mind and clouded her judgement, wouldn't have to deal with the deteriorating box in the back of her mind and fear the escape of pains long thought laid to rest, wouldn't ever have to feel anything she didn't want to ever again.  This horrible, rending pain would go away.  She could fight Beckett with ice in her veins, like it was meant to be.  She and James could slide back into normality—she wouldn't have to love him anymore, and he could pine after Elizabeth Swann without hurting anyone but himself.  They could be friends again, and remove the terrible awkwardness that had settled between them.

She felt like she could float away on the sheer power of her desire to have that ritual.  Her want for it was a roar in her ears and a cyclone in her most unruly heart.  It would solve so many problems, cutting out her heart.

 _But_ , her treacherous reason spoke, _it would create so many more.  What happens to the baby if you cut out your heart?  What will you tie yourself to in lieu of your heart, hmm?  You've seen the Dutchman's spells—Jones bound himself and his heart to this ship to keep living after he cut out his heart.  What will you tie yourself to?  And that's not even touching on the question of where you're going to put it.  Keep it here and Jones snatches it, and uses it to control you, same as Beckett controls him.  Put it anywhere else, and Jones tells Beckett.  Can you imagine what would happen if Beckett gets your heart?  It's bad enough that he's got James, but to give him your actual, beating heart?_

 _I cannot_ , she admitted to herself, seeing her dream of a pure, icy world, defined in sharp lines and clear colours, evaporating before her eyes.

She came to this decision in less than thirty seconds.

Stella turned her eyes back to Jones.  "Can you really?" she asked, not bothering to hide the longing in her voice as she hid her resignation.

"O'course I can," Jones replied, trying again for a soothing tone.  It didn't work; Stella was more suspicious than ever.  "I can even help you along, if you like."

 _So that's his game_ , she thought.  Help her remove her heart, promptly steal it, and then revel in the pain it would cause herself and James.  Perhaps even use her against Beckett—she'd have cut out her love for James, and would be more open to the idea of destroying Beckett, and hang the consequences.

"I want to know of the ritual, first," Stella warned.  "I will not trust you blindly.  Not after everything you've done to me."

Let him think she was willing (and may he never know just how willing she truly was).  Let him think she would be so foolish to place even more of herself in his power.  He would give her what she wanted—one more piece in the puzzle of this damned ship, one more weapon in her arsenal, one more legacy to leave to her child, one more thing to protect from the encroaching Age of Reason.

And who knows?  Perhaps one day, if James still panted after the little Swann, one day when Beckett was dead and Jones released back to his usual haunts... perhaps then, she might plunge the knife into her chest and thereafter see the world with cold, sharp edges and feel the ice in the place of her disobedient heart.

"What makes you think there's a ritual?" Jones asked, cocking a brow at her.  "It's just a matter of wanting it enough."

Stella snorted.  "If only that were true.  But were I to follow your advice in this, Captain, you'd find me dead in the brig with a blade in my chest.  Were I thus inclined, there are easier ways to die," she added tartly.  "The truth, Captain."

Jones' beard twitched.  "Not until the moment before," he riposted sharply.

"Do you think me foolish enough to let you come at me with a knife?" Stella asked incredulously.  "I have no intention of doing this until I understand what is being done."

"Then you don't want it bad enough," Jones replied coldly.  He smirked at her.  "Or you don't hurt badly enough."

"Perhaps I have a higher tolerance for pain," Stella sneered back.  "After all, I live with my pain every single day.  How much were you able to endure before you started cutting out body parts?"

And there was the venomous glare.  "More than you'll ever know," Jones spat—again, literally.  "He's still with you—you've got his whelp growing in your belly.  He might not love you, but he's never betrayed you, never pretended at something he never truly felt and used it to hurt you  Until he does, harpy, don't speak to me of pain!"  He was roaring at her at this point, beard twitching and spit flying.

Stella remembered snapping something very similar at James during the beginning of their acquaintance, when they'd still hated each other... about a year ago, now.  What she'd said to James was as true then as it was true now; she supposed Jones had an equally valid point.  No one could truly know the contents of another's heart, and thus never truly understand what it was they felt, and how they felt it, until they found themselves in the same circumstances.

Of course, she'd be damned before admitting it to Jones.

" _'_ I would my love could kill thee; I am satiated with seeing thee live, and fain would have thee dead. I would earth had thy body as fruit to eat, and no mouth but some serpent’s found thee sweet. I would find grievous ways to have thee slain, intense device, and superflux of pain; vex thee with amorous agonies, and shake life at thy lips, and leave it there to ache; strain out thy soul with pangs too soft to kill, Intolerable interludes, and infinite ill; relapse and reluctation of the breath, dumb tunes and shuddering semitones of death,'" Stella quoted quietly.  It was the only apology she felt she could give.

Jones went very still, though she could see the tension in his shoulders, and the twitch of his beard.  "Your words?" he asked, his voice gone curiously rough.

"No."

"I didn't think so."  But he didn't say anything else, just turned and stumped away.  Stella remained on the deck and—sure enough—not five minutes later, tormented organ music rang out over the ocean.  It seemed oddly incongruent with the sunny day, but it was an interesting counterpoint to her remaining time on deck.

When she returned belowdecks to the brig, Bill was waiting—he always was.  "What'd you talk about?" he asked, once the first mate was gone.  "He's in a fine mood... again."

"What we always talk about: love," Stella shrugged, removing her hat.  "We also argued about women versus men in regards to their intrinsic faithfulness, and the Captain offered to help me cut out my heart."  She was still disappointed that she couldn't get the ritual out of him.

Bill gasped, and took an involuntary step towards her, hands grasping her upper arms tightly.  "You can't!"

"I know I can't, you idiot," Stella snapped.  "I'm with child—I’m not doing anything to my body while my daughter is still in it."  She looked down and rubbed her belly, smiling a little, feeling the flutter inside as her baby moved, sensing the spark inside.

No, she couldn't do it.  Not until the child was born.  Perhaps not even then, though she didn't think even removing her own heart could possibly change the way she felt about her daughter.  That was a love rooted in every single part of her body, that nothing could ever change.  Indeed, that love was what was driving her, most of the time.  Her daughter deserved a world without Beckett, deserved a life with both parents, untroubled by all those things which had dogged her mother's childhood, and Stella had to fight for that.  The child was important.  Cutting out her own heart could wait until later.

When she pulled herself out of her contemplations, it was to see Bill looking at her with such a look of deep love, paired by deep anguish, that her first reflex was to recoil.  But acquaintance with James had taught her that her first reflexes were not always the best reactions; this was no different.  She merely arched a brow a little while letting one corner of her mouth quirk upward.

Bill would have blushed, then, if he'd had the blood to do so; instead, he ducked his head and stepped away.  "Don't do it, Stella," he rasped.  "It'll change you, warp you, twist you and make you just as bad as he is."

"It'd be an end to the pain, though," she murmured thoughtfully.

"You're strong enough to bear it," Bill replied gently, reaching to touch her cheek gently.

"I'm going to have to be," Stella said grimly.  "I cannot afford to start handing out more weaknesses.  Thus, _nunc iam illa non vult: tu quoque impotens noli, nec quae fugit sectare, nec miser vive, sed obstinata mente perfer, obdura_."

 _But one day_ , she thought to herself, _one day..._

 

* * *

 

Captain Reynolds turned out to be a strangely dashing man of around thirty or so, whose antipathy towards Beckett was easily discerned after about a half-hour or so.  He had eagerly signed on board the Greek Fire and provided a list of like-minded merchants, but had brought up a valid point: how was he to know which of the other captains were friendly?

Theodore had been pressing for some kind of sign, an indication of the members of the Greek Fire.  He favoured a Greek letter or two.  Isaac agreed that they needed to have a sign, but more for Stella's sake—how else would she know who to trust?  James was reluctant—Greek letters were sensible, but too obvious, and Stella needed no signs to know who to trust.  But with Reynolds pressing for a sign as well, it was time to put aside his caution and think of something.

So, James and Theodore retired to his study after supper to hash it out.

"I still think that if the conspiracy is called 'Greek Fire', we ought to have a Greek letter," Theodore insisted.

"The idea has merit, but I don't that's prudent," James said, shaking his head.  "Greek Fire, Greek letters... if Mercer figures it out that there is a conspiracy against Beckett, it won't take a leap of logic to decide that those who wear the Greek sigils are part of it.  We need something unrelated.  Something... simple, easy to hide, but easily recognisable as well."

"A triangle is a Greek letter—delta, I think," Theodore insisted.

James frowned thoughtfully, rubbing the bridge of his nose.  That would actually be a fairly good indication.  General enough that it would not arouse suspicion, but a Greek letter for the Greek Fire.  Still, he could not repress his automatic disinclination towards anything Greek.  It was too simple, to easily revealed.  "I still don't like the idea."

Flowers would not work—naval officers walking around with sleeves embroidered with flowers?  Even more obvious.  A tree, perhaps?  Completely unrelated, but perhaps hard to embroider—James intended to call upon Anne Witcher and Caroline d'Ascoyne and have them stitch the signs for the conspiracy, and it needed to be something simple enough for them to create many of them, quickly.

And suddenly it came to him.  A star.

"What about a star?" he said to Theodore.

Theodore grinned.  "A star for Stella!  Isn't that obvious, though?" he added, tauntingly.

James sneered cheerfully at him.  "No.  What does Stella have to do with Greek Fire?  She's been on the _Dutchman_ for six weeks, now; how is she to be involved in such a conspiracy?" he pointed out innocently.

Yes, a star: that would be their sign.  It was easy for Stella's friends to embroider, could be made small and placed inconspicuously, was something unrelated to the name of the conspiracy, and manly enough that the men could wear it without feeling strange.  Besides, Stella said that Mercer had no imagination; he would never connect the dots.

"We should have flags made, too," Theodore suggested.  "In case of battle."

"We'll have to see if the ladies are willing," James warned.  "I will go to them tomorrow and ask."

"They'll be willing," Theodore said confidently.  "Madame d'Ascoyne has proclaimed herself willing to shoot Lord Beckett in order to be rid of him—surely she'll sew some flags instead."

"If it comes to it, we may need to take her up on that," James remarked dryly.

"What, the flags?"

"No, the shooting."

"If we're going to have a lady assassinate Lord Beckett, surely you should offer Mrs. Norrington the chance first?" Theodore suggested.

"Do you honestly believe that Beckett would let her within a hundred feet of him with a weapon of any kind?"

"...No."

"Assassination is only a last resort, anyway," James demurred.  "Let us hope that we can resolve things before any deaths are involved."

"Too late," Theodore said glumly.

James sighed—Theodore was right.  But he still felt those deaths, and carried that burden.  She told him, sometimes, that he cared too much, that he couldn't take responsibility for everyone.  And perhaps she was right.  He still carried his guilt for the men who were lost in the hurricane, and probably would until he died.  But he couldn't regret it, not when he'd seen what a man who didn't care was like.  Beckett didn't care about the men who served under him, and James would prefer caring too much to behaving like him.

He sighed again.  "Then let us hope we can stop Beckett before there is any more death."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N part deux: There it is, then.  Not quite as long as the previous ones... but then, not as much happens.  It's sort of a reaction chapter._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _Anyway, the poems Stella quotes are from Catullus (Carmen 8, as she says), Shakespeare's Hamlet, and from Algernon Swinburne's Anactoria.  Yes, I know the Swinburne is anachronistic (he's actually a 19th century poet, whereas the movie is set in the 18th), but it was so appropriate!  (And I really like his poetry.)  So, Stella gets to be ahead of her time.  Woo-woo._
> 
>  
> 
> _So yeah.  If you notice any whoopsies in the editing, let me know as well—still no Beta.  I just edit it myself, and not very well all the time._


	34. Stella Spei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are nine pieces of eight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Onwards! Still stuff from 2009.
> 
> _A/N: Yayz. More chapterz._
> 
> _Congratulations to everyone who accurately pointed out that I am, in fact, a rabid Firefly fan—Captain Reynolds and his ship Serenity were transplanted directly from there. If you have never seen any Firefly, you should. It is awesome beyond all mortal reckoning._
> 
> _Also, I got my passport! Yay, new passport! New passport, replacement visa, replacement residence permit, replacement bank card... I have everything I need. Hurrah! Of course, I celebrated this by getting really, really sick. Like, five times. That wasn't fun—Chinese colds hang on for ages. I spent the entirety of November sick, pretty much. So yeah, sorry for the long wait, but... well, sickness. And finals. Which I was on the other side of, for once._
> 
> _Anyway, enjoy the chapter! I take one of the movie scenes and hack it into bits for my own purposes. Whee!_

 

Mr. Mercer returned to the Caribbean in late December—almost a month after James had first had his dream of the wolf eating the moon.  When he heard that, he congratulated himself.  Stella was right about instinct after all.

Of course, James winced shortly thereafter.  Things would be getting so very much more dangerous with Mercer back in their midst.  Now came the test of the Greek Fire: could they remain hidden with Beckett's hound sniffing among them?  There were many of them, now—out of a fleet of roughly 300 ships, 107 were Greek Fire ships, wearing the emblem of a small, five-pointed star.

Anne Witcher and Caroline d'Ascoyne had, when asked, replied that of course they were willing to embroider for the cause.  The tiny black stars were barely three centimetres tall, stitched onto cloth the same blue colour as the officer's uniforms.  James kept his on his sleeve; Isaac had his sewn onto his collar; Theodore's was displayed subtly on his shoulder.  The two ladies had also produced a few banners bearing the black star on the blue field, but told him they couldn't make all of them—not without arousing suspicion.  Therefore, some of the other navy wives had volunteered to contribute as well; Beckett was despised not only by the captains, but by their wives as well (his prohibition on assemblies still stood, and the upper-class ladies were quite upset).  Many of the captains carried stars and banners sewn by their own wives.

James felt... oddly bereft about that.

He hadn't been to see Stella since that day back in the middle of November, more than a month ago.  He missed her terribly and worried about her constantly and wanted her with him to bounce ideas off of (it was tiring and stressful, to run the conspiracy without her), but he knew she wouldn't want to see him.  He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to see her, either—not with things the way they were.  But he still made sure that the ships that made the fortnightly rendezvous with the Dutchman always brought plenty of provisions and ensured that Jones was treating Mrs. Norrington as well as he was capable.  From the reports his captains brought, Stella was well enough; she wasn't so dangerously thin and deathly pale anymore, and she assured them that Jones left her mostly alone.  And she'd been begging them for pickles and strawberry jam recently.  James found it odd—Stella didn't even like strawberry jam.  But he sent it along nonetheless.

Beckett still had not told him how he was to crew the ships that lay in the harbour, empty.  James wondered why he was bothering—an armada of nearly 170 crewed ships was massive, larger than that which Philip II of Spain had brought against Elizabeth's England.  Why in God's name did he want more ships?  As if he'd asked the question aloud, he could hear Stella's dry drawl in his head... but no words made themselves known—it seemed he could duplicate her tones, but not her wit.

Damnation!  Why did she have to love him, and muddle things so badly?

The minute those thoughts crossed his mind, James immediately felt like a complete jackass.  Stella hadn't asked for those feelings, and he knew full well how overwhelming they could be.  He knew she didn't want his pity, but she had it nonetheless.  And he just... missed her.  How was he supposed to stay a step ahead of Mercer and Beckett without her?

Carefully, he supposed.  They'd all have to be careful and hope like anything that Mercer and Beckett had something else to occupy themselves with.

* * *

 

Cutler Beckett was glad to have Mr. Mercer back in the Caribbean.  There was something calming about being in close proximity to a person whose loyalty was unquestionable.  The naval officers' first loyalty was to Admiral Norrington, and the East India ships were loyal first and foremost to commerce, but Mercer was utterly loyal to him personally.  It made things easier.  And of course Mercer was his eyes and ears in the places he could not go.

"Sao Feng is willing to make a deal," Mercer informed him, standing before the desk in the East India Company headquarters in Port Royal.

"He is one of the Pirate Lords, is he not?" Beckett inquired, leaning back in his chair and glancing out the window at the harbour.  It was another fine day, and the forest of masts in the harbour cheered him.  All this power, gathered here under his command.

"Yes.  He is willing to betray the _Black Pearl_ , with the help of one William Turner," Mercer added, smiling a little.

Beckett sat straighter.  William Turner.  He had not heard from the young man since he left to seek Jack Sparrow.  According to his agents, they had all been killed when the _Black Pearl_ went down; apparently, that was not true.  "Turner survived?"

"He did.  Along with his fiancée."

That certainly helped things.  His hold on Governor Swann, after all, was based on his daughter—Beckett hadn't been sure what he'd do when the Governor discovered that Elizabeth Swann was dead.  Now, he could continue to ensure the man's loyalty since he had recent information that the chit was still among the living.   "Mmm... and they intend to seek the Black Pearl and her captain?"

"Yes."

"Can we follow them?"

"No.  Our agents lost them after they left Singapore.  If the reports are true, where they’re going, we couldn’t follow anyway.  Better be ready for them when they return," Mercer suggested.

"See to it.  What of Sao Feng?"

"He intended to set sail soon after our departure.  He should arrive in the Caribbean within a few weeks.  Apparently, there is to be a meeting of the Brethren Court," Mercer continued.

"The pirate lords?"

"Yes.  Nine of them—the holders of 'nine pieces of eight'."  Mercer tossed a coin onto the desk—a piece of eight.

Beckett picked up the coin and began to spin it idly on the desk, synthesizing the information in his mind.  A crew of ruffians, including the renegades Elizabeth Swann and William Turner and the pirate captain—possibly Pirate Lord—Hector Barbossa.  (Beckett had heard that Barbossa was dead, but apparently that information was also untrue.)  They sought the charts to the land of the dead in an effort to retrieve Jack Sparrow and the Black Pearl, according to Mercer's informant in Sao Feng's camp.  Jack Sparrow was needed as one of the Pirate Lords—Lords who could be discerned through their possession of one of the nice pieces of eight.  Sparrow had taken his piece with him down into the Locker, and the Brethren Court needed it back, but to what purpose was unknown.

He slammed his hand down on the coin, stopping its spin.  "A piece of eight.  Nine, you say?" he inquired, vocalising where his thoughts had come to rest.

"Our new friend in Singapore—" meaning Sao Feng, "was very specific.  Nine pieces of eight."

"What's the significance of that, I wonder?" Beckett mused.  A piece of eight was a coin.  There must have been hundreds of thousands of them in circulation around the world.  What was special about nine of them—the nine of them?  Were they spelled, somehow?

"Does it matter?" Mercer asked, chuckling a little.  "There's nothing can hold against the armada, not with the _Flying Dutchman_ at the lead."

"Nothing that we know of," Beckett pointed out sharply, sighing internally.  Mercer really had no imagination.  "Did your friend happen to mention where the Brethren Court are meeting?"

"He was mum on that, sir," Mercer replied shortly.

"Well then, he knows the value of information," Beckett commented.  He didn't really expect Sao Feng to give up the location, and would have been rather disappointed if he had—a great pirate Lord like Sao Feng so very lacking in cunning.  Still, now they had the problem of finding out what those pieces of eight were and what they could do as well as the location of the Brethren Court.  "Best keep this between ourselves.  Don't want anyone running off to Singapore, do we?" he added, raising his brows.

Mercer nodded, understanding that Swann was not to hear the current location of his daughter.

Beckett took up the piece of eight again, and rubbed it thoughtfully between his fingers.  "I'll have to summon the Dutchman," he decided.  "We have 300 ships, now—we need no more.  Jones must now bring us prisoners.  We'll see if they know anything.  After, we will put them to work on the empty ships.  There—two birds with one stone," he finished complacently.  Then something occurred to him.  "First, though, I shall confer with Mrs. Norrington.  Perhaps she will have some knowledge regarding the holes in our intelligence.  At the very least, she will be able to advise us on what questions to ask."

"Should I fetch her for you?" Mercer asked grudgingly.  He and Stella had a mutual antipathy, and were much happier when they were nowhere near each other.

"She's on the _Dutchman_ ," Beckett replied, smiling thinly and enjoying Mercer's look of surprise, followed by confusion.  "I feared what she would do if I left her to her own devices.  She was gathering a coalition of captains before I sent her away—I didn't want her dripping poison in any more ears.  So I sent her away.  She'll return much humbled, I'd wager, after some time in the company of Davy Jones."  Beckett had made sure Jones was aware that he could do many things to harm her as long as she returned alive.  A weakened, frightened Stella would be much less dangerous, and seeing her brought low was a pleasant prospect.

"How did the Admiral take it?" Mercer wondered.

Beckett smiled thinly.  "Better than I expected.  No dramatics or emotional outbursts.  The gauntlet was thrown, of course, but the Admiral seems willing to let the state of affairs stand as long as his wife is not harmed in any visible way."

Mercer's eyes narrowed a bit.  "Have a care, sir," he warned quietly.  "Norrington's a man of honour... he won't take too many more insults without retaliating."

"It's Stella I'm more worried about," Beckett said dismissively, flicking his fingers glibly.  "She's the one who steers him in the direction she chooses.  Disobedience begins with her—it always does, with her kind," he added sourly, almost managing to squash the hint of bitterness in his tone.  "The arrogance of the supernatural.  They won't bend to one of the mundane unless we force them, and even then they won't bend gracefully.  Constant reminders of your power is needed to keep them down.  I am simply ensuring that Black Stella knows exactly who is in charge."

Mercer shrugged, and changed the subject.  He knew better than to try and change Beckett's mind when it was made up.  And Beckett had been spending more time with the Norringtons, lately—if he said the Admiral was content and the wife cowed, then it must be so.  Mercer had better things to think about, anyway; there would be much to do in the coming months... prisoners to interrogate and break to the East India Company harness, pirates to chase down, a secret meeting place to locate, mysterious coins to sort out, and of course the whispers of a conspiracy against Beckett to ferret out.  Beckett could see to the Admiral's witch.

* * *

 

James Norrington had once accused Stella Bell of being terrible at dealing with people.  That charge would be equally valid levelled against Lord Cutler Beckett.  Beckett was an excellent businessman, a meticulous administrator, and a rather good plotter as well.  But he had curious blind-spots in his dealings with other people, unable to understand and therefore take into account things like honour or loyalty... or love, and how they might impact the behaviour of his puppets.

Cutler Beckett placed little importance on honour—an action was profitable, or it was not; honour did not enter into his calculations except insofar as the honourable might be manipulated.  Therefore, he did not entirely understand the weight it carried in the mind of Admiral James Norrington, and how Beckett's consistent interference in his marriage and the harm he was bringing to Stella Norrington, whom James had sworn to protect, was a blot on the Admiral's honour which was growing too large to ignore.

Cutler Beckett placed little importance on love—he had never felt its sting, and tending to think it a form of weakness in which the emotions overcame more rational thought.  Therefore, he had no idea what Stella Norrington would do—or, most importantly, not do—for love.  For James Norrington, Stella would bend her neck and suffer.  She would not fight, or do anything that might cause any harm to come to the man she loved.

In short, because Cutler Beckett did not understand the nature of the emotions driving the Norringtons, he was guarding the wrong front.  It was not Stella Norrington he needed to worry about.

* * *

 

Stella Norrington was currently eating a jam, salt-pork, and pickle sandwich.

Yes, the strange cravings had arrived.

Bill had taken one look at her meal and asked if she was feeling well.  Stella assured him she was, but that she desperately wanted strawberry jam with salt-pork and pickles on rye.  "I don't remember food very well," Bill had said, "but that is disgusting, isn't it?"

"Not right now, it's not," Stella had replied, digging in with relish.  "Besides, you eat live crabs.  You have absolutely no reason to talk."

After lunch, she planned to have a bit of a nap, and after then she would return to her studies until dinner—she and Bill had thrown together a soup that was not at all bad.  Bill had gathered a seaweed that actually tasted fairly well in soup—a bit like salty cabbage—and the potatoes from her last package were in there as well, with some fish and a carrot or two.  After dinner, she would see to making the rest of the wind-strings, tidy the cell, and go to bed.

Of course, all this was still pending.  Jones could "request" her company on deck and her schedule would look different: an hour of painful conversation on deck, an hour of crying after, and spending the rest of the evening doing something that didn't require the use of her hands, which would be shaking for several hours afterwards, while wishing fervently that she was anywhere but here.

And of course that still happened.  Not even James' orders could make Davy Jones leave her entirely alone.  While there were no more physical altercations, Jones did still enjoy bringing her up on deck and needling her—and he knew exactly where to jab the metaphorical needle to cause the most pain.  She never should have told him as much as she had.

Stella regretted it.  Every single day, she regretted it.  She never should have traded her secrets—she should have let those men die.  What was a little bit of salvage in a sea of so much death?  She hated herself for thinking those thoughts—those were not the thoughts of a decent person—but she couldn't stop, not when nearly every day Davy Jones used the knowledge she'd given him to make her hurt as much was in his power to do.  And for what?  A score of men she'd never see again.  What was the point?  Why was she suffering so for no reason?

And yet... when she watched the blood spill onto the dark wood of the deck and heard the cries of the dying, Stella couldn't be sure that she wouldn't do the same thing again.

Surety had become a rare commodity these days.  Before, she had been utterly certain about so many things—she was powerful, she was strong, there was little out there that was worse than she.  So surely—so arrogantly—had she assumed, when she first boarded the _Dutchman_ , that she could use it as a sabbatical, could stitch herself back together and mend her wayward heart.  But now she was ragged and falling apart at the seams, that mantle of proud arrogance she had worn around herself was in tatters and she was left with the bitter truth that she wasn't what she'd thought herself to be.  Now she was choking on the humble pie being served up by Davy Jones.

She wanted to go home.

' _But what can't be cured must be endured_ ,' she reminded herself.  And she still had her studies... although those, too, had lost some of its lustre as she came to see the ship as less of a construct and more of a prison.  It was a strange, twisted entity, warped just as badly as its captain.  As near as she could tell, it was meant to do something else... there was some purpose in its planks that Jones had mutated to his own ends.

Stella didn't suppose she'd ever know all the ship's secrets, or what it had originally been meant to do—not unless she could wring it out of either Jones (unlikely) or Tia Dalma (even more unlikely).

Yes, she imagined Tia Dalma knew.  She'd noticed the second time the _Dutchman_ had gone underwater (the first time had been Jones attempt at drowning her, and she had been in no condition to notice anything but how wonderful it was to breathe) that her surroundings were... changing.  That the magic seemed to be... different—as though they had undergone a crossing of some sort.  And then she'd remembered Tia's hint, from their conversation in Singapore: _"It cross 'twixt life and death."_   Considering the preceding advice had been about walking right into danger, and Stella had certainly done that the moment she stepped foot willingly onto the _Dutchman_ , she figured that Tia was referring to the ship in her rather mysterious statement.

But how did Tia know it crossed?  Theoretically, it was possible that she'd just heard about it... but Stella didn't think so.  Her gut instinct was telling her Tia was connected with this ship somehow.  Perhaps she'd even been the original enchantress.

How, then, was Davy Jones connected with her?  Was Tia the woman Jones loved too much, the woman on whose account he had carved out his own heart?  Or was there no relationship at all?  It was all such a muddle of possible connections that it made her head hurt sometimes.

But she put the thought away as she finished her sandwich and brushed the crumbs from her skirts.  She never got any further, so why bother pondering it?

"The baby doesn't mind that?" Bill asked, seeing that she was finished eating.

"The sandwich?  I shouldn't think so—it's her fault I want to eat such things," Stella pointed out dryly, patting her belly.  "Didn't your wife crave strange combinations when she was pregnant with William?"

Bill's face fell a little.  "I can't remember," he admitted sadly.

"Why does that happen?" Stella wondered, getting up and fetching her pillow for her nap.  She had noticed that his memory seemed surprisingly patchy; previously, she had simply attributed it to personal quirks, but further conversation revealed something much more ominous.  "Why do you loose your memories?  Is it simple disconnection from your previous life, or is it something more sinister and insidious—something Jones does?"

"I'd reckon it's Jones, myself," Bill replied.  "I spent years at sea before... I spent years under the sea as well, for that matter," he added in a mutter.  "But it wasn't 'till I swore an oath to the ship that my memories began to fade."

"I suppose that makes a twisted sort of sense," Stella murmured, almost to herself.  'Twisted' did seem to be a particularly apt descriptor of Davy Jones.  "Not all the men who serve here are as tormented by the past as he.  Indeed, some may have taken comfort from recollections of loved ones on shore.  But because they had those memories and he did not... well, he could not stand for that.  And so he made it so that all their memories would fade."

It was fascinating, in a horrifying, macabre sort of way—like the way she'd felt as she'd watched the saw-toothed bo'sun decapitate a sailor.  She'd been aghast at the violence, but her curiosity had been piqued by the cross-section of a man's neck and the way the blood pumped so furiously out of several tubes.  Continuing to study the ship was a little like that.  She was horrified at the things Davy Jones was doing to the souls under his command, but curious about how—and why—he'd done so.

Shivering, she changed the subject of her thoughts, and decided that this evening she'd see if there were any of the ship's enchantments specifically directed towards memory.  And then, she'd see how she might thwart them... perhaps bring back Bill's memories, if she could.  Not only was it unfair to think that he might forget everything—even his son—in time, but perhaps if she was able to bring back his memories of his wife, he wouldn't be in love with her anymore.

Stella winced, upon thinking that.  She shouldn't be so cold-hearted and manipulative.  She should be looking for a way to restore Bill's memories simply because he was her friend, not because it could benefit her too.

Bill himself jerked her out of those thoughts, ushering her towards the bunk for her afternoon nap.  "That sounds like something he'd do," he agreed gloomily.  "Everyone has to be as miserable as he is."  He tucked her blankets around her and stroked her writhing black hair gently.  "Sleep well."

"Wake me in two hours," she bid him as she closed her eyes.

* * *

 

In her dreams, Stella was home again.

She walked through the familiar rooms of the house, hearing familiar laugher waft through the corridors.  Up she went, seeking the sound, and suddenly the upstairs hallway of her house in Port Royal morphed into the main floor of her childhood home on Antigua.  The door to the parlour opened at her hand, and James was there, in the chair she usually occupied.  Father was on the sofa; Mama was next to him, their arms lovingly entwined; Isaac was sprawled on the rug before the fireplace.  She looked down to see that she was fifteen again—skinny, short (well, shorter), no chest to speak of—with a broom in her hand.

"The darkest hour is just before dawn," her mother said, looking up at her and smiling.

"You can't chase it down," Isaac added.  He was his proper age, the age he was when she'd last seen him, still dressed in his uniform.  "It will come in its time."

"You are yourself, and cannot be given or taken away," her father offered.

James rose from her chair and came over to her, placing his hands on her shoulders.  "Keep fighting," he advised her, leaning down to kiss her gently.

Stella let the broom fall from her hand the minute his lips touched hers; when the broom hit the floor, it bounced twice, and Lord Beckett sprung from the wood with Davy Jones' heart in his hand.

"Nine pieces of eight," Beckett said, holding his other hand up and letting nine pieces of eight fall to the floor.  The coins hit with a ringing sound, and in their echoes Stella could hear the pirate Song.

_Some men have died, and some are alive... and others sail on the sea with the keys to the cage and the Devil to pay..._

James touched her cheek gently.  "I love you," he said.

Then he fell down dead at her feet, a spike of wood protruding from his chest and Bootstrap Bill standing over him, with blood dripping from the pirate's cold, dead hands.

* * *

 

Stella sat bolt upright in the bunk, screaming.

Bill was at her side in an instant, but backed away, wounded and confused, when she scrabbled away from him.  "What is it?  What's wrong?" he rasped.

Now the stark terror of the dream-world was fading, and rationality was reasserting itself.  Stella took a deep breath and clamped down on her whirling thoughts and roiling emotions.  "A dream," she replied, after several more deep breaths.  "A very horrible dream."

She sat quietly on the bunk, picking silently through the images and words.  Bill drew cautiously near again, and ventured to ask, "Just a dream?"

"I would hardly say 'just'," Stella replied shortly.  "Lord Beckett will be here within two days.  He seeks information regarding nine pieces of eight that are somehow connected with the Pirate Lords.  I have no idea what he thinks I'll know about it."  She swallowed heavily, and knotted her thin fingers together.  "My family was there, in my dream.  They told me the worst is yet to come, but that I mustn't give up, and James..."

Here, she faltered.  Bill moved to put a hand on her shoulder, and she shivered again—she could not bear him to touch her, not with that nightmarish image still in her mind.  Before he could make contact, she blurted, "He said he loved me, and then you drove a wooden spike through his heart."

Bill's hand froze inches from her skin, and hovered for a moment.  Then he dropped the hand and took a step back.  He opened his mouth, then closed it, as if he wasn't sure what to say but thought he should say something.  "Oh," he finally managed.

"I don't know if it's prophetic, or just a dream," Stella murmured.  "Everything else was... if not entirely prophetic, certainly not meaningless, either.  I certainly dreamt of James' death thusly quite often after I went into the river.  It was almost always the same.  And now I have dreamed it again."  She turned her head to look at Bill.  "Would you kill him, if you had the chance?"  Bill immediately looked down, and fidgeted a little, telling Stella clearer than words that he would.  "Why?" she asked plaintively.

"Because he's hurting you," Bill replied savagely.

"So is Davy Jones!  So is Cutler Beckett!  You don't seem so eager to kill them," Stella cried.

"You don't love them, either," Bill growled.

Stella put her thumb between her eyebrows and sighed.  "So, you'd kill the man I love because I love him, thus causing me more pain in one blow than Jones and Beckett put together?" she asked quietly.

Bill took a step closer.  "No.  I wouldn't kill him because killing him would hurt you," he replied, just as quiet.  "I might want to hurt him because he's hurting you, but I'd never knowingly cause you pain.  I still don’t like him, though."

"I'm not asking you to," Stella said, hearing what he wasn't saying.  "Just... don't kill him."  Perhaps this simple request might alter that horrible fate she so often saw in her dreams—that fate wherein James died alone on the _Flying Dutchman_ with a spike of wood protruding from his chest and a profound sadness in his lightless green eyes.  Only the nightmares she had of drowning as the _Dutchman_ went underwater frightened her as badly.

"I won't," Bill promised.  Then he changed the subject.  "Beckett's coming?"

"Within a day or two, we'll be summoned," Stella nodded.  "And then, for at least a little while, Jones will have someone else to direct his malice towards."

* * *

 

Stella was right; two days later, the _Flying Dutchman_ was summoned to the waters off Jamaica by Lord Beckett.  She was brought to the airtight room, and then the ship went below, into death.

(She'd wondered what this place was, before—she'd felt... weaker, somehow.  Less aware.  Of course, once she'd realised it was the realm of death it had made perfect sense.  It was death—naturally, she would have no power there.)

They didn't spend much time in that other plane of existence—mere moments before the ship dived again and they burst out of the sea into the realm of the living.

And of course Davy Jones forgot to come and let her out.  Stella rolled her eyes. He did that often.  Sometimes he'd leave her in here for hours, and there wasn't a thing she could do about it.  She couldn't use her powers to unlock the doors because Davy Jones' magic was soaked into the ship and she wasn't strong enough (or stupid enough) to try and override his control.  Besides, he always remembered to let her out... eventually.

She could hear the tramp of booted feet outside, and started smartening herself up.  Beckett would call for her soon enough, and she wanted to look as tidy as was possible.  She'd just finished coiling her hair on top of her head when she heard footsteps approaching the door.  The moment after she got to her feet, the door swung open, and sunlight flooded the room, making her wince and close her eyes.

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Norrington," came an apologetic voice.

"Quite all right," Stella dismissed, waving her hand and blinking to clear the spots from her vision.  She could see the dark outline of a man against the sunlight, and as he came closer she saw he was wearing a lieutenant's uniform.  As her eyes adjusted to the light, she recognised him as Groves' first lieutenant... something Fielding.  "Good afternoon, Lieutenant Fielding."

"Good afternoon, ma'am," Fielding replied warmly, and his pleasure at being remembered by the Admiral's wife was like the scent of coconut in the air.  "Lord Beckett requests your presence on deck."

Stella accepted the arm he offered, and stepped out into the sunlight.  She could see the _Endeavour_ moored to the starboard side of the _Dutchman_ , and beyond it the faint line of Jamaica in the distance.  The marines were stationed around the deck, and she could see Lord Beckett holding court on the poop deck.  Fielding led her up the stairs and announced, "Mrs. Norrington, Lord Beckett."

Beckett half turned to glance over his shoulder.  "Ah, Stella.  Just who I need to see.  Leave us, Lieutenant," he commanded, waving an imperious hand.

Fielding's displeasure at being so cavalierly dismissed was a prickle against her skin, but Stella squeezed his arm a little and gave him an encouraging smile.  The Lieutenant nodded and returned to the main deck.  Stella took a position at Beckett's left, and waited until he was ready to discuss whatever was on his mind.

"What do you know of the Pirate Lords?" Beckett inquired suddenly.

"Very little," Stella replied calmly.  "I know there are nine of them, and that they form the Brethren Court.  And of course I know that you mean to eliminate them."

"Do you know anything about nine pieces of eight that are connected with the position?"

She didn't, but she wasn't about to tell Beckett that.  For the first time in weeks, she could smell land, brought to her by breezes come straight from Jamaica.  She was so sick of being at sea she felt like she could scream, and if she played this right, she might be able to get away from the ocean.  Even for a day—an hour—anything.  Any time off this ship would be cherished.  "Nothing beyond their existence.  I believe there is an entry on the Pirate Lords in my grimoire which mentions them," she replied coolly.

"What does it say?" Beckett queried, with a hint of eagerness in his voice.

"I don't know," Stella said primly, smiling internally.

"Can you look it up?"

"I left the book at home."

"Then tell me where it is, and I will look it up."

"You wouldn't be able to find it, even if I told you where it was," Stella informed him, making sure to keep her vindictive glee hidden.  "It is an old protection, laid down by my great-great grandmother."

"Is there anyone else who could get me that information?" Beckett asked, though the edge of resignation in his voice informed her that he was now well aware that he would have to allow her off the ship.

"No.  The enchantment is keyed to those of her bloodline, of which I am the only surviving member."  This was not technically true, but since neither Beckett nor Stella knew where to find the other members of the bloodline or indeed who they were, it would suffice at the moment.

Beckett's lips tightened—the only visible sign that he was displeased with the direction his search was going—and he nodded curtly.  "Then it seems you will be returning to Port Royal briefly," he said tightly.

Thankfully, Stella’s self-control was still strong enough to keep her from jumping and squealing for joy right there on the deck of the _Flying Dutchman_.  But it was a close thing.

* * *

 

Stella was able to wrangle one day on land from Beckett.  She would have to be back on the _Dutchman_ by midday tomorrow—it was a little after midday when the Endeavour anchored in Port Royal, and she had to check the book and report to Beckett with her findings before departing tomorrow.  One day on land... and her husband wasn’t at home.

She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or regretful about that.

She breezed into her home as though she had been gone for an afternoon, as opposed to nearly three months, and effortlessly—gleefully—resumed her position as queen of the house.  Here were people under her command, who would do as she told them.  Here, in her own home, she was on the very top of the hierarchy.  And after months of being downtrodden, being in charge once more was like a breath of fresh air.  Her trunk was to be unpacked, laundry was to be started as soon as possible, hot water demanded for an extensive bath, and two meals were commanded.  Callers were to be diverted—she had no time for them—unless Miss Witcher or Madame d’Ascoyne happened to stop by, in which case they were to be shown to the parlour and Mrs. Norrington fetched from the study.

Her first hot bath in three months was heavenly.  There was still some lavender bath salts, and Estrella’s gentle fingers in her hair were very soothing.  Likewise was, her maid’s horrified clucking, reminding her that there were those in the world—the real world, away from that damned ship—who wished her well.

That reminded her of Bill, however, and she winced every so slightly.  He hadn’t taken the news of her departure very well—oh, he hadn’t said anything, but Stella could see the panic that flooded his blue eyes, and the way his hands clenched, as though he’d wanted to grab her and keep her there, and his love for her was tainted with misery and desperation and grated like nails against her mind.  He was afraid that she wouldn’t come back, and then angry with himself, because he knew she’d go eventually.  But she couldn’t get the taste of his fear out of her mouth, even now, neck-deep in lavender-scented water.

When the water began to cool, Estrella helped her out of the tub, wrapped her in a towel, and brushed out her hair—she was entirely clean for the first time in months.  She was laced into a new gown that had been made for her expanding figure, and Stella felt that she once again recognised the lady in the mirror—no more was she a ragged, fearful-eyed wretch with loose, writhing black hair, but instead she was once again the Admiral's wife, Mrs. James Norrington, the formidable lady of Port Royal.

It felt marvellous.

After she felt returned to her old self, Stella saw to the household affairs that had been neglected in her absence.  All was running well, it seemed—James didn't spend much time at home, and made few demands when he was present.  She checked the progress of the nursery, and made a mental note to dash out to the shops on the morrow to see that it was finished.  Heaven knows if she'd be back in time to see the room prepared before her daughter made her debut into the world.

And then, after luncheon—a marvellous, hot meal comprised of all her favourites—she did as Beckett wanted and checked the grimoire.

To her surprise, it did have some information on the Brethren Court and their Pieces-of-Eight—something set down by her grandmother Esmerelda.  As Stella already knew, the Brethren Court was comprised of nine Pirate Lords.  Apparently, the first had included the famed Morgan and Bartholomew, and they had set down the Pirate Code.  Afterwards, there had been but two other meetings of the court, summoned when piracy as a way of life was threatened and the Song—the Song in which Tia was Queen—was sung.  The Song as a means of summons had been contrived by the second Brethren Court.  This up-and-coming meeting would be the fourth.

But then the entry delved into territory she was unknowing of, and she made sure to copy it down on a fresh sheet of paper to deliver to Beckett.  (She could've shown him the entry, but she didn't trust him.  And the book was hers.)

The Brethren Court met on Shipwreck Island, in Shipwreck Cove, in the town of Shipwreck.  (Stella had burst out laughing when she first read that.)  There were no coordinates for the location, but it was somewhere in the Western Hemisphere.  The Pieces of Eight determined a Pirate Lord—a Lord could not be a Lord without a Piece of Eight.  It was a magical bond, of a sort.  A Lord would receive the Piece of Eight from his successor, which transferred the magical bond—there were no words, no ritual... the Lord simply had to intentionally pass on the Piece of Eight to a successor, which would pass the bond.  There was also an aside, in her grandmother Esmerelda's curly handwriting, speculating that the nine pieces of eight could be used in a ritual of some sort.

There was not much more information—very bare bones, indeed.  Beckett would be displeased; he was still searching for the identities of the other seven Pirate Lords, the location of their meeting, and the further significance of the Pieces of Eight.  He was paranoid about any mystical weapons the Court might have to use against him.

Therefore, Stella made sure to include her grandmother's speculations on the copy she was making.  Perhaps that would encourage him in his delusion that there was further significance for the Pieces of Eight.  If he was concentrating on that, he would pay less attention to the conspiracy against him.  And then she wrote down a copy of the Song's lyrics in her spidery script, and stitched it into the book, behind the entry on the Brethren Court.

God willing, she would have more to add before this fiasco was complete.

Supper came and went—Stella was ecstatic at the spread, and ate her fill.  Immediately afterwards, however, she retired to the study and continued speculating.  The deeper in she got, the grimmer things began to look.  She and James had truly been drawn into something much larger than themselves, and it was mostly Jack Sparrow's fault.  If he hadn't already been dead, Stella would've kill him.

As night drew closer around the house, Stella put her speculations to rest and went upstairs to look at the stars.  She hadn't seen them in months—Jones made sure she was sequestered belowdecks by the time the sun set.  She basked in their pale light, up on the balcony, and her eyes carefully noted the position of the stars and what it meant for her future.  It wasn't promising—her trials were not over yet.

Sighing, she retired to her bed.  It was paradise—the soft mattress, the warm covers, the fluffed pillows... she would never take it for granted again, not after three months of sleeping on a cold, hard, damp bunk.  She slept soundly all night, and woke ravenous.  The hot breakfast was wonderful, and she ate until she felt she would explode.  Who knew when she would get such fare again?

Her morning was busy—a servant was sent to the shops to ensure Stella was provisioned for her return to the Dutchman, Estrella accompanied her mistress to another set of shops for the baby and other future needs, laundry was finished and packed into the trunk with lots and lots of dried lavender, more blankets were packed, along with a copper pot and several pillows.  And, with but two hours left before she must return to the _Endeavour_ and report to Lord Beckett, the butler announced Miss Anne Witcher.

Stella glowed like a candle and immediately rushed down to the parlour, where the two women fell into each others' arms, laughing.  "My dear, dear Stella!" Anne cried.  "It has been ages since I've seen you—I heard that you had returned, and I knew I must see you at once!"

"I'm so very glad you called," Stella replied honestly.   "Friendly faces have been in very short supply lately."

Anne's eyes were keen as she turned them on her friend.  "You look so pale!  Have you been well?" she asked.

"Hardly," Stella replied, sneering.  "Lord Beckett really does keep me in the most terrible conditions.  Why, if it were not for the kindness of but one sailor, I should be quite dead, I am certain!"

Anne was appropriately scandalised, and Stella went on, detailing the horrible things she had been suffering at the hands of Davy Jones.  Stella knew this story would be making the rounds within days, turning more people in Port Royal to her side.  Beckett would find no friends here... but James would.

There was no time for tea—Stella explained that she had but two hours left, and then was back to her exile on the _Dutchman_.  Anne gasped, and sighed, and said that there were many that would be sad to have missed her (especially, she added quietly, Caroline, who was still furious with Beckett), and that she was glad that she had remembered to bring this, reaching into her pocket for something.

It was a star—small and five-pointed and black, stitched on a pale blue field.  Stella ran her fingers over it, before looking up at Anne again.  "What is it?" she asked quietly.

"The symbol of the Greek Fire," Anne replied, her voice hushed.  Even though Stella's protections against eavesdroppers held, there was no harm in being careful.  "Admiral Norrington chose it, and everyone who's part of it wears it somewhere.  So should you, so that everyone will know you are with them... not that they don't, already," she added, rolling her eyes.  "But those who don't recognise you as the Admiral's wife will recognise you by the star, and give you as much help as is in them to do.  And if you have any converts on the _Dutchman_ , you might sew some stars of your own."

Stella barely heard her—she was staring at the black star in her hands with new understanding and appreciation as her insides melted like butter.

A star.  He'd chosen a star to represent the conspiracy against Beckett... for her.  A star for her.

There was hope, then.

James probably didn’t know it, but he felt something for her—something more than mere friendship.  He was likely unaware of it, since he was still in the habit of being in love with Elizabeth Swann, but there was something that belonged to Stella within him.  There was hope that, one day, he might love her back.  She just had to wait.

She ran her fingers over the embroidered star before tucking it into her dress, next to her heart.  "Thank you, Anne," she said, her voice husky.

Her newly-acquired hope buoyed her up, and she made a point of cherishing her last two hours on land for God knew how long.  It kept her sharp and snide when faced with Beckett, and it enabled her to ignore Davy Jones, who was in a fine temper.  She knew Bill, when she returned to their little cell in the brig, was baffled by the mysterious little smile lurking in the corners of her lips, but she demurred and said nothing.  This hope would be private.  This would be one secret she would keep from Davy Jones, one thing he wouldn't taunt her with.  It would belong to her and no one else.

_After all,_ she thought, taking her embroidery things from her newly-cleaned trunk to begin work on some small black stars of her own, _'hope is the pillar that holds up the world.'  If it can hold up the world, certainly it can aid my endurance for however long it may be required._   She set her jaw and threaded her needle purposefully, consciously feeling for the embroidery still folded next to her heart.  _I can—I will—endure anything if one day James might love me as I love him._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N part deux:  There we are, then. Not one of my better chapters, I think... the fact that it was done so far apart contributes to the sense of patchwork-ness.  Meh.  The story moves along, anyway.  Also, the quote at the end is from Pliny the Elder.  There isn't any "find that reference" this time around, though._
> 
> _Again, sorry for the long wait, but I kept getting sick, and then I lost my inspiration for a bit.  My muse is a fickle creature.  I don't know when the next chapter will be out—it may take a while, since a), it's nearly holiday time, and b) holiday time in China means travel.  I'm going travelling again, yay!  I'll be off to Haerbin (in the north of China) for Western New Year at the end of December, and then from about January 10th until my birthday on the 7th I'll be in the south of China for Spring Festival/Chinese New Year.  I'll be kicking around in Yunnan province (and checking out Shangri-La) and ducking out into Laos during the actual days of the Chinese New Year, when everything in China shuts down.  However, I will be alone for that time, so I may end up writing the next chapter longhand, or something._
> 
> _...Anyway.  That's why the next chapter may take a while to emerge.  So yes.  Again, please review!  Even if you're all just chiding me for tarrying on my writing._


	35. Stella Mutationis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which duty calls the Norringtons elsewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is definitely from 2009 (possibly 2010), but you'll see that I do this vanishing thing regularly.
> 
> _A/N: All right, so it's been more than six months since I last updated this.  I'm SORRY!  But there was Christmas and New Year's in Haerbin and almost the entirety of January in Laos and then returning to China and realising just how much I really did hate it there (especially because it seemed to suck the energy right out of me).  And then I had to try and find a new job because I sure as hell wasn't staying in China, and then I had to figure out how I was getting home, and then I got home, and then I got jet lag, and then there was a wedding (not mine), and I still have no job for the coming year... it's this whole big thing.  Not that this entirely excuses me for not writing, but I hope now to make it up to you with a rather lengthy sort of chapter._
> 
> _So here it is!  Chapter 34!  Enjoy!_

 

"Orders, Lord Beckett?"

"...Hold position, Admiral," Lord Beckett decided, after a brief moment of contemplation.  He kept his eyes fixed on the map-table in the centre of the Endeavour's stateroom.

"Still?" Admiral Norrington inquired, raising a brow, which Lord Beckett did not observe.

"Yes, Admiral," Beckett replied, a rind of irritation in his voice.  "We can do nothing without information—something which, I remind you, we currently lack.  We have no idea where our quarry lies, and therefore we will hold."

"Very well.  Have you any idea when we will have the information we need?" Norrington asked, mostly concealing the impatience in his voice.

"No," Beckett replied shortly.  "The interrogations are not proceeding apace," he added, grumbling quietly.

"Perhaps this is because you have extremely limited choices for interrogation," Norrington remarked dryly.

"Mmm, yes," Beckett agreed, frowning slightly.  "Jones is hardly providing us with viable sources of intelligence... of any kind."

Beckett's new orders had been delivered nigh on a month ago.  Davy Jones was to cease killing the crews of the ships—the ships were unimportant, now.  He was, instead, to capture the pirate crews and deliver them to Beckett for interrogation.  The rest were to be sent to the Admiral as crew for the armada.

Things, however, were not quite going to plan.  Naturally.

Davy Jones had been sending them the very dregs of the pirate crews—simple men who probably knew nothing of their own captains, let alone Pirate Lords and Pieces of Eight—and not very many of them, at that.  Some of them barely spoke a comprehensible language (although Beckett's fluent French and smattering of Dutch paired with James' workable Spanish, French, and snippets of Portuguese and Mercer's fluency in six languages were generally enough to eventually discern that these sailors knew nothing).  Afterwards, they were... well, James disliked the term "broken to harness", but it was unfortunately appropriate.  However, with Jones' pithy offerings, they had only managed to crew two ships.  Beckett was most unhappy.

Jones claimed that these were all that was left over after the ships were taken, that the rest of the crews fought to the death and the _Dutchman_ had no choice but to use all the force available to them.  Stella, however, informed them of a different story.  Jones was scarcely trying—he was only doing what was required to avoid punishment and acting like a truculent child.  Nor did she hold any sway over his actions, and were they really so surprised?

Beckett went on, "I wonder that Stella allows such behaviour."

James gave Beckett a glare that should have started his wig on fire.  "With all due respect, Lord Beckett, have you taken leave of your senses?" he asked acidly.  "Mrs. Norrington," putting emphasis on her married name; he had never liked how informal Beckett was with Stella, "has been saying for months now that Jones does not listen to her.  No matter what mystical powers she might have at her disposal, Jones has more.  He's also taller, stronger, more evil-tempered, and in possession of a great number of unpleasant subordinates with swords.  Mrs. Norrington is a pregnant gentlewoman with nothing but her wits and her considerably more distant allies.  I trust you begin to see the disparities in their positions?  Why on earth would Jones listen to her?"  He paused a bare moment, before adding, "Why on earth is she still on that ship?"

He considered adding, _This vendetta against her is harmful to the efficiency of this fleet.  Isn't it time to put it aside and focus on the stated goals—eliminating piracy, remember?  Stella is no pirate, no matter how much you might hate her.  Send her back to Jamaica, and find a better way to keep control of Jones._ But he didn't.  James and Beckett's working relationship was based on the sheer amount of things they didn't talk about, and mentioning one of those tacitly agreed topics—which mostly concerned Beckett's treatment of Stella and James' time of disgrace—was to destroy their fragile peace.

Beckett gave him a genteel glare, and said curtly, "Thank you, Admiral."

It was a clear dismissal.  James clenched his teeth, gave a terse bow, and left.  If he stayed any longer, he'd be forced to do a violence upon Lord Beckett.  That man... if the gaping holes in the logic of his orders was ever pointed out, Beckett just ignored it and dismissed the person.  James hadn't been ordered about like that since he'd first joined the navy, and he had almost reached the end of his rope.

* * *

 

Beckett, however, was not unmoved by his Admiral's argument.  He sat back at his desk and considered the matter.

It was true that his grudge against Stella Norrington was beginning to harm his plans.  He knew full well she had no control over Jones—he knew, when he placed her on the ship, that the captain wouldn't listen to a thing she said.  But, since his purpose had been to humble the arrogant witch and keep her from conspiring against him with her influential husband, he hadn't much cared.

Now, however, he needed some way—someone—to control Jones.  The integrity of his plan was being impugned by Jones' behaviour.  If he wanted to continue on, they had to find some way to control that monstrous being... and Stella couldn't do it.  The Admiral was right: Stella had to come off the _Dutchman_.

But she couldn't be left to go back to Port Royal.  Stella was dangerous.  Left to her own devices, she could turn Jamaica and the members of his fleet against him. Nor should she be allowed to scheme with her husband; between the two of them and Governor Swann, they could lead the armada and the majority of the British Caribbean against him.  She had to be watched.  But she couldn't stay on the _Dutchman_ , either, because Jones needed to be controlled, and if Beckett put another man on that ship Norrington would demand his wife's release.

Beckett tapped his fingers on the desk, thinking.  He needed a solution to both control Jones and Stella, to keep the Admiral both calm and away from his wife, and something to ensure that his plans would keep moving forward in the direction he pleased.

Hmm... well, he could place Admiral Norrington on the _Dutchman_... perhaps with a squadron of marines, to ensure that Jones understood Beckett meant business.  Stella could come onto the _Endeavour_ instead—she'd be under both his and Mercer's eyes.  Indeed, the _Endeavour_ was where Governor Swann spent most of his time, and he was most certainly cowed.  Yes, that would work quite well: Stella would come onto the Endeavour.

But would Norrington have enough clout to control Jones?  Beckett was well aware that gunshots and stabbings were but temporary inconveniences to the crew of the Dutchman.  If Jones finally snapped and decided to mutiny, it could be possible to overpower the soldiers and retake the vessel.  And while, in this hypothetical situation, Beckett would certainly chastise Jones thoroughly for that little infraction, the armada would have lost a squad of good men and the Admiral.  With the loss of the Admiral, things would fracture immediately; it was loyalty to Norrington that kept the naval section of the armada tightly bound and functioning like a smoothly-oiled mechanism.  It was Norrington's ability for command and knack with people that was helping shape the merchant sector of the armada into something a little less like cannon-fodder and more like a workable section of the fleet.  And it was Norrington's life that kept Stella leashed.  Lose Norrington, and everything would fly to pieces; the navy would withdraw and balk at Beckett's commands, the merchant sector would sink back into disordered uselessness—that is, if they didn't try to pull free from the armada and return to commerce—and Stella would immediately turn on him.  It was plain that Beckett needed to give Norrington some kind of safeguard that would ensure he could keep Jones in check even if the monstrous captain did snap; they were both too valuable to lose, but he'd rather lose Jones than Norrington.

Not that he wanted to lose either, mind.  Norrington was an excellent officer, and men of his type were thin on the ground.  He was also the sole restraint on his vicious, powerful, extremely useful wife.  Jones, however, commanded the _Flying Dutchman_ , which would intimidate pirates even better than the size of the armada.  Besides, Beckett admitted that he took a certain pleasure in controlling this powerful supernatural entity.  Cutler Beckett, with no powers at all, had brought Davy Jones to heel.  His mother could put that in her pipe and smoke it.

(Beckett ignored the fact that he only had that control because of James Norrington.  But he did have a tendency to ignore that which conflicted with his preferred view of the world.)

Beckett rose from his desk and moved to the globe, idly spinning it and letting his fingers trail across the polished surface.  What to do, what to do?  He mulled over the problem for several hours as he took tea and continued working, turning possible solutions over in the back of his mind.  It wasn't until he was checking the Heart at the close of the day (he made a habit of making sure it was there; he had locked it back in the Chest he'd taken from the _Dutchman_ a few weeks ago) that he had an idea: perhaps he might put the Heart on the _Dutchman_ , with Admiral Norrington.

The more he pondered the idea, the better he liked it.  Jones would hate the idea of having his Heart back on the ship, so there was one plus; it was something lasting and unpleasant to accurately convey the depth of Beckett's displeasure.  Norrington could also immediately chastise any misbehaviour, and destroy the threat immediately should any mutiny arise.  Admittedly, Beckett would have to send the heart away from him, which was a little less palatable, but sacrifices did have to be made.  Besides, if Norrington was keeping Beckett's prized possession, he'd just to make clear that Norrington's was going to be kept on the _Endeavour_ as surety for his good behaviour (and hopefully she would be much humbled after her time with Davy Jones).

So, that was the plan, Beckett decided as he signed a document with a flourish.  Norrington and the Heart of Davy Jones onto the _Dutchman_ , and Stella Norrington onto the _Endeavour_.  Hopefully this change of postings would result in some actual live pirates for interrogation, and thus the continuance of his grand scheme.

He was so close to realising his dream—to usher in an era where the East India Trading Company ruled supreme, with Cutler Beckett at its head.  To destroy the scourge on the seas, therefore going down in history as the man who destroyed piracy.  To subjugate the supernatural, finally achieve ascendancy over that that which he had always felt inferior, and prove himself to his mother as a force to be reckoned with.  He would be rich and famous and feared... and powerful.  So very powerful, with complete control over the seas and the skies in his hands.  Perhaps one day he would be the most powerful man in the world, with kings and princes seeking his favour.  And nothing—not recalcitrant monsters or stubborn Admirals or disobedient witches or even a pack of filthy pirates—would stop him from achieving his goals.

* * *

 

The morning after Beckett's decision to shuffle the postings of his personnel, Stella awoke in her bunk in the brig of the _Dutchman_ knowing that she was going to leave this ship within one week.  She had dreamed that a crow flew from the _Dutchman_ through a sky full of bats across an ocean full of scorpions to the _Endeavour_ , where a dead gull and a vulture waited.  It didn't get much more clear than that.

The only question, now, was whether or not to tell Bill.

Poor Bill.  At this point, he was clinging to two things to keep Jones' spells at bay and retain the tattered remnant of his humanity.  The first was his son; the second was her.  And since William Jr. was God knows where, Bill clung to him through Stella's stories, and therefore clung to Stella herself with a desperate fervour.

He hadn't taken her sojourn on land very well; it seemed to have reminded him that this was only temporary, that Stella had a home somewhere else and would one day leave him permanently alone in the brig of the _Dutchman_ without any news of his son.  Since her return he had been acting particularly clingy, even for two people who were sharing the same cell—he was always watching her, and Stella had awakened more than once to feel his fingers tangled in her hair.  She had no idea how he would take the news that her departure was imminent.

All right, she admitted to herself, she knew damn well how he'd take it: badly.  Bill was leaning on her to keep him sane, just as she had leaned on him before her short respite on land gave her something new to buoy her flagging spirits.  Bill only had her.  Take her away, and she suspected he'd implode.  Stella didn't want that; Bootstrap Bill had been her friend.  He had helped her and comforted her and stood by her in her darkest hour; it would be a terrible repayment if she left him without doing anything to ease the pain of parting.

And thankfully, Stella could do a little more easing than the average lady.  Especially since Isabella had devoted several studies to memory—she had been a remembrancer, and left plenty of spells for her descendants to play with.  Said descendant had been working on this idea, off-and-on, for weeks, and while it wasn't exactly graceful and wouldn't work forever, Stella figured she could probably finish it in time.

Not that this answered the question of whether or not to tell him.  She pondered the dilemma as the morning wore on—not that she or Bill was aware of its passing, imprisoned as they were in the twilight murk of the brig.  Bill watched her think with badly-concealed worry and even more badly-concealed ardour.  That was eventually the convincing argument.  If he was this clingy now, Stella didn't want to think about how worse he could get if she said anything.  So she held her tongue and worked harder on her project.

Besides, she eventually realised, if Jones got wind that she was going to leave his domain, he would definitely make her final days memorable ones... and not in a pleasant way.  For the most part, nowadays, Jones seemed to ignore her.  Perhaps the lustre of tormenting her had worn off—especially since she was long since accustomed to seeing men die and had stopped reacting to many of his taunts.

Unconsciously, her hand went to her neck, where a new ornament had joined her omnipresent bells.  It was a simple pale green ribbon with a dark blue five-pointed star embroidered in the middle.  It was the symbol of the Greek Fire, and, unbeknownst to anyone else, Stella's private hope that one day Beckett would be overthrown and her husband might return her love—in essence, that one day this would all be over and she could have the life she wanted.

"You never did tell me what that was for."  Bill's hoarse voice broke into her musings, and Stella glanced over to see him staring at her fingers as they rested on the ribbon around her neck.  Once he had her attention, he cast his eyes down to her lap, and the objects thereon: an embroidery hoop, a skein of dark blue thread, and a square of white linen already covered in tiny stars.   "Why all the stars?"

Stella beckoned him closer, and Bill came swiftly to her side.  "There's a conspiracy against Beckett," she told him, her whispered voice barely audible over the sound of the ship.  "To wear a star is to declare membership in it."

"Then which one is mine?"  His blue eyes were intense on her, and she knew he would wear it to declare for her, and no one else.

"I haven't sewn yours yet," Stella said, turning back to her work.  No, she hadn't yet stitched for Bill yet.  His star would be a spell as well as a star, soaked in memory and bound with eyebright and garlic and stitched with her own hair on the night of a full moon, two days hence.  It would keep her (and her repeated stories of his son) fresh in his memory.  Jones' curse might dull the memories of his crew, but every time Bill saw or touched the star, he would remember her anew.

Stella wasn't sure if this plan would be considered a kindness or a cruelty—leaving him with nothing but memories of a woman he could never have and would never see again—knowing that perhaps one day they would be the only memories he would have at all.  She supposed it was better than the alternative—of letting this ship dull his mind until he was nothing more than an empty construct that had once been a man, bereft of any recollection that he had ever been otherwise.  Both options were cruel.  That, she supposed, was the nature of Davy Jones and anything associated with him.

Speaking of Davy Jones, Stella could hear the stomp of feet down the stairs.  She sighed, and moved to put her work into the bag.  The crew was coming to escort her to the airtight room—they were going to stalk and take another ship with the stated purpose of garnering more subjects for interrogation.  Of course, what Jones was actually going to do was bombard the ship for a good half-hour.  Whatever was left would be sent to Beckett.

Bill was beside her in an instant, helping her to her feet.  She certainly needed the help—she was almost seven months pregnant, now, and since James made sure she was fed (distantly, not personally) she was getting quite large.  The baby was active, as well, constantly shifting around and kicking her—which she did the moment her mother stood.

"Ouch," Stella murmured, pressing a hand to her belly.

"What is it?" Bill asked frantically, hovering around her.

Stella bit her tongue to keep from snapping at him—his hovering was beginning to get on her nerves, since she was utterly incapable of escaping from it.  "She's kicking me again," was all she said, as the crewmen (thankfully, not the bo'sun) reached the brig and moved to the door.

As usual, she was escorted up to the airtight room and locked in.  As usual, she was stuck in there for hours, listening to cannons and shouting as she stitched star after star.  As usual, she wasn't let out until nightfall, when she was escorted back to the brig and locked back in.  As usual, Bill had waited up for her and had dinner (as usual, a fish soup) ready for her.

As usual, as usual, as usual.  Stella supposed a body could get used to anything, if her life on the _Dutchman_ had become routine.

* * *

 

Admiral Norrington stood at the fo'c'sle of the Endeavour and looked out across the sea, painted white-silver in the moonlight.  He looked up at the moon—waning gibbous; it had been full two nights past—then over at the stars.  He wondered how long it had been since Stella had seen them.

Well, she'd see them soon enough, Norrington thought, folding his hands and staring back across the ocean.  Stella's time on the _Dutchman_ was over, thank God.  Beckett had finally seen reason, and had informed him that Stella was to be removed from her post.  He, however, had been commissioned to take her place. He was to command the _Flying Dutchman_ in Davy Jones' stead, since Beckett deemed Jones a loose cannon and an inadequate captain for his purposes.

James wasn't sure what he thought about his new vessel—or his new post.  Yes, Beckett assured him that he would have the Heart on board, along with a couple of small cannons in the event of a mutiny and two squadrons of marines.  But he was still going to be in close proximity to Davy Jones, who loathed him, and on the same ship as William Turner, Senior—father of the man who stole the woman he loved, and who loved, in turn, the woman he'd married.  James wasn't sure which man-type-thing would make him more uncomfortable.

At least Stella would be free.  Her term of imprisonment was over, and she would be free to return home and spend the rest of her pregnancy in peace and comfort (and far away from both Davy Jones and William Turner).  That was, in turn, a comfort to the Admiral.  He wouldn't have to worry about her any longer.

It had been almost two months since James Norrington had last laid eyes on his wife.  He had made sure that the men who rendezvoused with the _Dutchman_ carried Stella provisions and whatever supplies she needed and ensured she was safe and healthy.   He had heard from them that Stella was both less pale and less thin than she had been, that her belly continued to increase, and that she was reasonably content.  It was comforting news, but he wanted to see her, and check her health for himself—she was, after all, carrying his child.  The time apart had hopefully worn down the awkwardness between them.  He hoped.  James could still hear the words she spoke to him, and remembered the harsh words he'd flung at her.   He had dwelled on them perhaps more than was good for him.

A footstep behind him distracted him from once again reliving that last conversation, and imagining ways it could've gone better.  Then Captain Groves stepped up beside him.  "Evening, Admiral," Theodore greeted, his skin bleached white-blue by the moonlight.

"Captain," James replied.

They stood in silence for a moment, before Theodore broke it.  "James, are you sure you wish to do this?" he asked quietly.

"I have no choice.  Orders are orders, after all," he said, with no small measure of bitterness.  It still galled that Beckett had the temerity and the arrogance to give him orders.

"We could start the fire," Theodore offered, voice now so quiet it was barely audible.

"What purpose would that serve, now?" James asked, turning to Theodore with a raised brow.  "We have just one ship right now—one ship that we're all on.  Beckett still has the Heart.  If we act now, the whole thing will blow up in our faces.  Jones might break free of our control, we could all die, the ship might be sunk... I can't bear to have another flagship destroyed out from under me," he muttered sardonically.

Groves huffed a quick laugh, before returning to his original worry.  "That ship is death," he warned grimly.  "And Jones hates you.  If you place yourself there—"

"Beckett promised me command of the _Dutchman_ , two squadrons, and the ability to destroy the Heart if needed," James returned.  "I will be as safe as I can be.  Besides, Beckett doesn't want me dead," he added, with a grin of dark mirth.  "If I die, who controls my wife?"  Theodore looked confused—then again, he only knew Stella as the charming lady, the society wife, the clever conspirator.  He had never seen her angry—or worse, in a cold, dispassionate rage.  Beckett was right to fear her—hell, James was afraid of her when she was like that.  James just smiled.  "Don't you trust me, Theo?"

Theodore sighed.  "Yes.  I just hate... this," he said, with a wave to the ship.

James pursed his lips.  "So do I."

And he did.  He did hate this.  Sometimes he wished he had never thrown his lot in with Beckett.  But what else could he do?  He had, and now he was trapped there, beholden to him and under his control with his pregnant wife in the same dire straits.  What else could he do but keep his head and obey?

* * *

 

The next morning, the _Endeavour_ glided through water gilded by blood and scattered with wreckage and corpses and fire.  The _Dutchman_ had taken another ship early that morning—so early, in fact, that Mrs. Norrington had still been abed when Jones sent a sailor to fetch her.  She was now resting, barefoot, in the airtight room, wearing nothing more than her nightgown and a cotton robe.  She was also unaware that today was the day of her deliverance from the grips of Davy Jones.  (Had she known, she would've at least grabbed a dress and some shoes before being hustled above decks.)

Admiral Norrington, on the other hand, was attired properly.  So too was Lord Beckett, who was partaking of a light breakfast in his stateroom and had not yet bothered to look outside.  The Admiral, however, was actually outside, looking full-on at the carnage and feeling a headache start behind his eyes.  He would have a considerable amount of work to do.

"Good morning, James."

Norrington turned around to see Governor Swann approaching him.  Swann had been practically chained to Beckett of late—perhaps because of whispers of rebellion.  Despite living under Beckett's thumb, Swann was still nominally governor, and if the conspirators (of which James himself was chief) were able to spirit him away or turn him against Beckett (something that would not be difficult) it would certainly make things more difficult for the Trading Company Lord.

Isaac had suggested, once, that they attempt to enlist Swann.  James had allowed that it was a good idea, but that he didn't think they had much hope in that quarter.  Swann was being held due to his love for his daughter.  As long as Beckett held Elizabeth's safety over her father's head, Swann would do nothing—or worse, expose them if he was convinced it would save Elizabeth.  They couldn't risk it.  But James did feel terribly sorry for his old confederate _cum_ friend.  However terrible his circumstances were, Swann's were worse.  Weatherby seemed to have aged a decade in these past few months.

"Good morning, Governor," James replied.

But Swann's attention had already been diverted by the tableau they were approaching.  He stared, horrified, at the carnage.  "My God," Weatherby breathed.  "What has happened here?"

" _The Flying Dutchman_ ," James sighed.

Swann frowned, deepening the lines in his face and making him seem stern and cold.  "And this is what Beckett has wrought," he remarked grimly, staring out at the smoke wafting over the water.  "This is his grand enterprise."

"This is Jones' work," James demurred, feeling the irrational need to defend, if not Beckett, then his enterprise.  After all, his stated goal was to rid the seas of piracy—something James had been attempting for more than a decade.  "He's defying orders."

"How can Beckett hope to order such a thing?" Weatherby asked.  He sounded almost hopeless, but there was something else in his voice...

"It is a matter of leverage," James replied carefully. Beckett had ordered, after the hurricane, that no one was to know of the Heart.  The sailors and all the officers had been sworn to secrecy on pain of Beckett's extreme displeasure.  Several men had inexplicably died in the weeks after the hurricane, and it had been assumed that Mercer was culling those who couldn't keep their tongues.

"What kind of leverage can one monster have over another?" Swann asked bitterly.  James said nothing, and Weatherby's faded blue eyes focussed on him and grew sharper.  There was something in his expression that reminded him simultaneously of both Stella's and Beckett's eyes.  "Has it anything to do with that chest?"

Ah.  Weatherby was digging for information.  James tried to hedge.  "What chest?"

"You know which one," Swann insisted, stepping closer and lowering his voice.  "The large steel chest tooled with tentacles and crabs.  The one that never leaves Beckett's side.  Has it anything to do with the leverage of which you speak?"  His voice got even quieter.  "With the severed heart that lies within?"  James startled violently, and whipped to stare incredulously at Swann, who was staring at him with a unemotional expression that would've been more at home on Beckett's face.  This was a side of Weatherby he'd never seen before.  "Whose heart is it, James?" Weatherby pressed.

A flicker of darkness caught his eye, and James glanced over to see Mr. Mercer staring at them intently.  How much had he heard?  He turned back to Swann.  "You know I can't tell you that," he murmured.

"No one can," Swann said resignedly.  "Or rather, no one will.  Beckett has you all on very short leashes."

That stung a bit—probably because it was true.   "Be careful," James warned quietly.  "Yours is shortest of all, and Beckett does not take kindly to that kind of inquiry."  Warning bestowed (though James had a feeling that Swann wouldn't heed it), he left to see to the dropping of the anchor.  Swann remained on deck, staring off at the smoke rising from the sinking ships.

* * *

 

Not a half-hour later, Beckett was on deck with a spyglass, having been informed by Mercer than Jones was defying his orders in a grand style.  This went far beyond just sending the dregs of pirate crews—no wonder nothing of quality was being sent to the interrogators!  Jones had bombarded the ships to scrap and splinters, which was even now burning.  Beckett was willing to bet that Jones gave no warning—just erupted from the sea and started firing.  Those who were left were given to Beckett's men, and those appeared to be few indeed—and no wonder!

Beckett collapsed the spyglass with an irritated sigh.  "Bloody hell, there's nothing left," he grumbled.

"Jones is a loose cannon, sir," Mercer agreed.

"Fetch the chest," Beckett ordered.  Even loose cannons could be tied down eventually—one simply had to find the right rope, and a strong enough arm to haul it.  Hopefully, with the Heart as a rope and Admiral Norrington's strength to haul it, Jones could be controlled and pointed in the right direction.

"And the Governor?" Mercer asked, surprising Beckett with the apparent non-sequitur.  "He's been asking questions about the Heart."

What a bother.  There was only one reason for Swann to be asking about that.  Apparently the good governor was thinking to slip his leash.  "Does he know?" Beckett inquired.

Mercer just looked at him, which was an answer in and of itself.

Pity.  "Then perhaps his usefulness has run its course," Beckett said coldly, only vaguely annoyed.  After all, Swann had appointed him representative, and with the communications lockdown he could keep the King and crown oblivious until the point was moot.

Yes... perhaps he didn't need Swann, after all.  Not anymore.

"Tell the governor he'll be accompanying us to the Dutchman," Beckett ordered, making his decision.  "If he is so curious about the Heart, perhaps he would like the chance to see it for himself."

* * *

 

James sneezed as a plume of smoke blew straight into his face.  Some of the marines were sneezing and coughing as well as they rowed over to the _Dutchman_ —where many of them would be posted for the next... God knew how long.  As they neared the ship, anchored not far from the destruction it had wrought earlier, James could hear the faint sound of organ music.  Davy Jones the musician.  Somehow, that seemed incongruent.

His longboat was the last to embark onto the Dutchman; when he finally stepped onto the deck, Jones' crew had already assembled and the marines were in position.  Terrified, but in position—including the two who were bearing the chest.

"Steady, men," James ordered mildly, directing his command to several marines who were quite obviously frightened.  It wouldn't do to show your enemy that you feared them.

He heard the telling step-thump long before Jones appeared, elbowing his subordinates aside as he shoved himself forward to face the Admiral.  However, he was brought up short upon seeing the chest in the hands of the marines.  The look of horror on Jones' face would've been comical if he'd been anyone else.

"Go," Jones breathed, sounding winded as though he'd been hit in the chest.  And perhaps he had; James didn't know what kind of effect the proximity of Jones' severed heart was going to have.  "All of you.  And take that infernal thing with you!"  Jones was beginning to build up a head of steam, with rage overtaking shock.  As he finished, he was roaring and spitting, "I will not have it on my ship!"

And then, like a knife sliding through one's ribs, Beckett's voice rang out over the deck.  He, too, must have been angry, since he was as close to shouting as James had ever heard him.  "I'm sorry to hear that... because I will!"  The Trading Company Lord strolled his way past the ranks of the marines with his silver-tipped walking-stick in hand, trailed by Mercer and Governor Swann. "Because it seems to be the only way to ensure that this ship will do as directed by the company," he snapped curtly. Despite his diminutive stature, Beckett had cloaked himself with imperious arrogance, and it made him seem taller.  Whatever else might be said of him (and his enemies could certainly think of several choice descriptions), Beckett did know how to present himself.  "We need prisoners to interrogate, and that tends to work best when they're alive," he drawled to a finish.

"The Dutchman sails as its captain commands," Davy Jones retorted proudly—perhaps a bad idea, James reflected, given how Beckett tended to react to shows of pride in anyone but himself.

"And its captain is to sail it as commanded!" Beckett retorted, nearly shouting.   Then he took a breath and composed himself, freezing ice over the fire of his rage, which would now burn cold instead of hot.  (James had always been fascinated with watching people do that; it was a skill he had never possessed and did not fully understand, the way they could be so angry one moment, and then the next so cold.)

Beckett stepped closer to Jones; their disparity in height was nearly irrelevant when one considered the equal disparity in power.  That little man could make the hulking monster dance to whatever tune he commanded. "I thought I thought you would have learned that when I ordered you to kill your pet," Beckett added quietly, poisonously.  "This is no longer your world, Jones. The immaterial has become... immaterial."  Beckett glanced over at James, who was watching their confrontation with a measure of fascination, and gestured with his walking stick.

James nodded once, curtly, moving to fulfill the unspoken order.  Hopefully, he could finish this duty quickly, and go release Stella from the brig.  Nodding in turn to the marines with the chest, he led them, to the background of Governor Swann's voice, into the captain's cabin, where Beckett had previously decided the Heart would be kept, due to reasons of security.  Now that James had seen Jones' reaction, he was inclined to think it was more about adding insult to injury than having anything to do with security.  Especially given what he knew of Beckett's personality.

The captain's cabin was dominated by the huge pipe-organ that soared all the way up to the ceiling.  With the huge windows and the strange, tube-like protuberances along the walls, Jones' cabin was like some strange, gothic cathedral.  A quick glance revealed a convenient pillar, which, upon his command, a marine brought to the centre of the room.  James put the chest on the pillar and inserted the key.  But before he could turn it and release the lock, someone grabbed his arm and swung him around.

It was Swann.  He was wide-eyed and frantic; James recalled hearing him shouting, earlier, but wasn't sure what Weatherby was so distressed about.  "Did you know?  Did you know?!" he demanded frenetically.  James shook his head mutely, not understanding what was happening, or why Swann was so upset.

"Governor Swann!"  There was Beckett again, being followed by Mercer and Jones... and, from what James could see, most of Jones' crew as well.  He could feel his headache growing behind his eyes.

Then Swann shoved him away, his meagre strength augmented by whatever frenzy was driving him at the moment, and grabbed a bayonet from one of the nearest soldiers.  It was apparent, from the way he was holding it and waving it around, as if to fend off an attack, that he was angry, afraid, and utterly ignorant of what he was doing; James was willing to bet this was the first blade Swann had wielded in years.  Someone was going to get hurt if he kept doing that, so he moved in quickly and grabbed Weatherby's arm, restraining his erratic motions.

Beckett was watching them with dispassionate blue eyes.  Once Swann was restrained, he stepped forward. "Out, everyone," he commanded.

The marines, however, looked to Norrington first—something he would be grateful for, later, when he had time to think on it.  His time here would be easier if the soldiers trusted him.  Now, though, he was wondering what in God's name was going on.  With a nod to the men, James confirmed Beckett's order.  With a quick salute, they obeyed.

When the room was empty of all other ears, Beckett spoke again, making his voice soothing.  "Governor Swann, believe me... I only sought to spare you from the pain—"

Swann, however, wasn't soothed, and interrupted scornfully, "You only sought to use my political connections to further your own cause! The worst pirate that ever sailed has more honour than you. Even Jack Sparrow had honour."

Beckett just scoffed disdainfully.  "Jack Sparrow is no more. And was never more than selfish desire cloaked in romantic fictions. A legend we’re well rid of," he dismissed with a tiny wave of his hand.

James was really confused, now.  Why was Swann upset about Jack Sparrow's death?  "You knew Sparrow was dead," he pointed out, addressing Weatherby, who had lost none of his manic energy.

"Not him," Swann snapped desperately.  "Elizabeth!  Elizabeth is dead!"

His first thought was, _'Since when?_ '  Stella had assured him that Elizabeth had been alive five months past, when his wife had seen her and Mr. Turner on a ship during the whole hurricane/Kraken fiasco.  Not that he'd asked Stella since, but he assumed nothing had changed—she hadn't said anything, certainly.  Not that they'd been speaking much, in recent months anyway.  Perhaps Jones or Beckett had some information Stella didn't?  Perhaps Elizabeth really was dead?

While James was reeling from this revelation, shocked and confused, Swann pulled away from his grip and opened the chest, throwing open the lid with a violence that made the column it was on wobble.  Resting in the corner was the forlorn, still-beating Heart.

"No..." breathed Jones, looking pained.

Swann hefted his borrowed bayonet, eyes wild and teeth bared in a furious grimace.  "This abomination is done!" he shouted.

Jones quickly moved to forestall his movements.  " Are you prepared to take up my burden, then?" the Captain inquired, limping forward to face Swann.  "If you slay the heart, then yours must take its place—and you must take mine. The _Dutchman_ must always have a captain," he intoned quietly, and James felt something prickle on his skin.

But Jones' words had made Swann hesitate.  He looked down at the Heart, looking sadly pathetic in the corner of the chest, then up at Jones, with his writhing beard, then over at Beckett, who spread his hands and raised his eyebrows, clearly passing the decision onto Swann.  He looked back down at the chest, and James could see him weighing his options.

But he couldn't let Weatherby doom himself like that.  Jones had said that if you stabbed his heart, yours must replace it—he could not let Swann cut out his heart.  What would happen if Elizabeth wasn't dead?  What would she return to, if her father was forced to captain the _Dutchman_ and serve Beckett in Jones' stead?  Weatherby had never liked the ocean, and (as far as James knew) had no idea how to sail a ship, either.  He couldn't stand by and let a man he'd thought of as a friend doom himself like that.

So he once again moved in and grabbed Weatherby's arm.  Now that Swann was a little less hysterical, it was easy for James to wrestle the bayonet from his grasp.

Weatherby still fought him, grief-stricken and angry.  "Let me!" he cried furiously.

"Elizabeth would not have wanted this," James hissed.  Though he certainly couldn't claim to having known Elizabeth as well as he thought he had, or had once wanted to, he did know one thing for certain: she would not have wanted her father to doom himself to an eternity as a monster, serving a monster.  No daughter would.

'Elizabeth' seemed to be the magic word, and the fight immediately drained from Swann.  His anger faded, and his grief overwhelmed him; Weatherby seemed to sag and grow old before his eyes.  "Elizabeth," he whispered miserably.

Feeling terribly sorry for him, James took him by the arm and led him away from the Heart, out into the sunshine.  "Come, Weatherby," he said quietly.  "Let's go find Stella."  Stella would know what to do—would know if Elizabeth was alive or not.

"Your wench is in the airtight room," Jones called after them.

"Thank you, Captain," James replied sarcastically.

* * *

 

Beckett watched the Admiral and the Governor depart, and glanced back at the chest.  Without looking at Jones, he said, "You're dismissed, Captain."

There was a pause, and Beckett glanced significantly over at Jones, who decided—for once—to be discreet, and left.  Alone, save for Mercer, he walked over and closed the chest, locking it once more and putting the key in his pocket.

This was bothersome.  Too many knew too much; Swann and Norrington were now unfortunately aware of information Beckett would have rather stayed between Jones, Mercer, and himself. What was he to do about this unfortunate surplus of information?

"They know," said Mercer, stating the obvious.

Beckett gave him a dry look—he was very well aware that they knew, and what could possibly be done with this information.  If either wanted, they could take Jones' place and remove the _Dutchman_ from his control.  Once Beckett was off the ship, it was in Norrington's hands; if the good Admiral wished, he could have someone stab the Heart and replace Jones as Captain, removing himself and this ship from Beckett's control.  Swann could, once he was elsewhere, spread this potential damaging information far and wide. 

These are the things that they could do.  Beckett had to surmise a way to prevent them from doing these things.  It wasn't hard.

He glanced back at the chest.  "I can order Admiral Norrington's silence.  He'll obey; it's what he does... especially since I still have his wife."

"And the governor?" Mercer asked, raising a brow.

"Yes.  Well..." Beckett paused, remembering Swann's despair at his daughter's supposed death.  Oh, Beckett himself knew full well Elizabeth Swann was still alive.  Not that there was any need to inform her father of this, of course; it might inspire him to fight on, which would be annoying in the extreme.  No, it was better that Swann, broken by the knowledge of his daughter's death, be heard announcing his intentions to retire elsewhere.  They could then dispose of him with no awkward questions asked.

Beckett glanced meaningfully at his assassin/secretary.  "Every man should have a secret he carries to his grave."

Mercer smiled.

* * *

 

"You," James demanded of the shark-headed crewman, once he was out of the captain's cabin, "where is the airtight room?"

The man-thing sneered at him—a strange expression, given the formation of his face and the state of his teeth—and pointed disdainfully at a door to the side of the one he'd just exited.

He changed his course, towing a nearly-senseless Weatherby Swann along with him.  When he arrived at the door, he tried the handle and found it locked.  When he knocked on it, he heard a familiar voice from inside call, "Yes?"

"Stella?  It's me," he replied, noting distantly that his voice sounded rather thick.

When she next spoke, her voice was much closer.  "James?  What are you doing here?"

He put his hand on the door.  "I'll explain later.  Unlock the door, would you?"

"I can't," Stella replied, her voice wry.  "I'm locked in."

James sighed.  "Of course you are.  Who has the key?"

"Guess."

Ten minutes and some spitting later, the door was open, and James Norrington laid eyes on his wife for the first time in nearly two months.

She looked much healthier than she had the last time he'd seen her; less thin, less pale, and grown larger with child.  She also looked less harried and frail, though there was something less sharp about her now.  She was also wearing her nightgown, and not much else.

"Why are you dressed like that?" he blurted, and then immediately wished he could take his words back.

Stella arched a brow.  "And I'm very happy to see you, too," she said, unable to hide her smile.

"I... of course, I'm overjoyed to see you again," James fumbled, knowing he was blushing.  "But... er, why are you wearing your nightclothes up here?"

"They came to fetch me early this morning.  I had no time to dress," Stella shrugged.  Although, James noticed, her cheeks were rather pink as well.

This was ridiculous.  They were two married people—friends, even—and here they were acting like blushing, stammering adolescents.

"Well.  All right."  James straightened his coat.  "I'll escort you back to the brig where you can... er, get dressed.  And pack."  He watched as realisation dawned in her dark eyes, and joy spread over her face like a sunrise over the ocean.

"I can leave?" she asked.

"Yes.  Lord Beckett has ordered your removal," James replied, smiling at her and her happiness at being free.

"Finally," Stella breathed.  She tightened her robe around her body—a futile effort, since that robe had been made for her before her pregnancy and didn't quite fit over her bulge anymore—and moved to the door.  She was pulled up short upon seeing Swann, who was still standing where James had left him.  "Governor Swann, hello," she said, obviously surprised.  She dropped a swift curtsey, as though she was not half-dressed on the _Flying Dutchman_.

Swann looked at her and smiled brokenly.  "Hello, dear," he replied quietly, patting her shoulder gently.

Stella glanced over at him, confused and worried, then back to Swann.  "Weatherby, what's wrong?" she asked softly.

"Elizabeth..." was all the reply she got.

"I'll explain when we're below," James said, forestalling her questions.  "And, since you have no shoes..."  That said, he scooped Stella up into his arms.  She made a tiny noise of surprise and immediately flung her arms around his neck as he began to walk down the stairs.  "Governor, I think you'd better return to the _Endeavour_ ," James suggested gently, seeing as Weatherby did not know all of what Stella could do.  Now would be a bad time to reveal that, and give him another shock.

With an absent nod, the Governor obeyed.  All the spirit seemed to have gone out of him.

Stella was a good deal heavier than he remembered here being, and much bulkier.  Of course, she was six months with child.  But it did make navigating the stairs slightly more difficult.

The third time he nearly slipped and sent them both careening below, Stella sighed and said, "James, just put me down.  I made it up above barefoot; I can surely descend the same way."

Since getting them both killed on a fall down stairs would serve no one's purpose, James carefully set her down, and contented himself with simply helping her descend.  Soon enough, they were back in the dim, damp brig that had been Stella's home for the past four months.

And, unfortunately, William Turner Sr. was still there, too, coming immediately to the door of the cell once he heard James' footsteps.  Once he caught sight of who was accompanying his roommate, his face fell; he seemed about as happy to see James as James was to see him.

 _Bloody Turners_ , he thought bitterly.  _Always panting after the women I love._

"Stella, are you all right?" Turner rasped.

"Fine—better than fine," Stella replied, unable to hide her glee.

"How are you going to get the door open?" Turner wondered, once James and Stella pulled up short at the locked door.

"Easily," Stella replied smugly, waving her hand over the lock and frowning.  There was a clicking sound, and the door swung open, nearly sending Turner falling face-first onto the floor.  "I don't usually like doing that, here, since I am technically overriding Jones' power and I doubt he'd enjoy that too terribly much.  However, given the circumstances, I feel an exception can be made," she explained, breezing into the cell and moving towards the sheet she'd hung in the corner to provide a small curtained dressing room.  As she moved, she held out a hand; the lid of her trunk flew open, and a variety of feminine items—a dress, stockings, a shift, a corset, some shoes—soared out of the trunk and arranged themselves behind the sheet at the flick of her fingers.  "I pray you excuse me, gentlemen, as I dress," she finished, and neatly closed the curtain behind her.

Turner looked baffled.  "What... what's going on?" he asked, but with a dread that suggested he knew full well.

"Mrs. Norrington is to be removed from this ship post-haste; Lord Beckett has decided that her time here is at an end," James replied, unable to keep the satisfaction from his voice, or from feeling bizarrely pleased at the way Turner seemed to slump.   Then, turning away from the father of his ex-rival, he moved towards Stella's trunks.  "Stella, do you want me to start packing these up?"

"Yes, please," came her reply. "Don't put the cooking things in with my dresses; otherwise, just throw it in a trunk or a crate and I'll deal with it later."

As James laid a hand on a black velvet bag and heard the familiar sound of stones, he remembered Weatherby and the question he'd wanted to ask her.  "Actually, Stella, I need to ask you something, first," he said nervously.  Mentioning Elizabeth Swann to Stella was always a little bit dodgy.

"What is it?"

"Er... Beckett said something... actually, it was Jones who said it... that Elizabeth Swann is dead," he explained, finally taking the plunge and saying _her_ name.

It got very quiet behind the curtain as Stella apparently paused in her dressing.

James went on nervously, knowing that Stella's silence never boded well. "And I was confused, because you said she was alive, and Weatherby—that is, Governor Swann... er, would like to know.  So... yes.  If you could tell us if she's still alive, we'd both... appreciate it," he finished lamely.

There was another long moment of silence.  James caught a glance of Turner, who was looking curious.  James was confused, until he recalled that Elizabeth was (or could've been) his daughter-in-law.

Finally, Stella spoke.  "I'll check for you, of course," she said, sounding flat and unhappy.  James wondered, for a moment, if he was getting better at reading her or if she was becoming less inscrutable.  "But I would also remind you that Jones is not a reliable source for anything.  Take whatever he says with a grain of salt."

She said nothing else, and continued dressing.  James and Turner stood awkwardly outside, waiting for her to finish.  A few minutes later, she emerged, clad in one of the new gowns James had commissioned for her and her expanding figure (it was the cool green one with the yellow flowers, he noted distantly), her black hair coiling itself primly on top of her head.

"I'll have to use the cards first.  I didn't bring the maps, so I can't scry the usual way.  This is going to be terribly imprecise," Stella explained, going to dig through a trunk.  "Bill, can you take down the curtain for a tablecloth? The cards are rather delicate."

Within ten minutes, everything was in readiness, and James stood behind Stella to watch her lay the cards (and trying to ignore the way Turner was hovering at her left).  The cards were old; like most of her mystical tools, they had been handed down through the years from mother to daughter.  Like the rune-stones, Stella wasn't sure who had first owned them.

When the last card was laid down, James felt his heart sink. It was Death.

"Don't look like that," Stella chided him immediately.  "This card seldom means a physical death.  It's supported by the Tower and the Moon, which speak of sudden changes and illusions.  I don't think this card means what you think it means."

But James could see a tightness around her lips; she was trying to reassure him.  She turned to him before he could comment and asked for her rune-stones, which she cast over the formation.  She looked for a long time at the way the stones lay—longer than James had ever seen her stare before.  So either she was having some problems interpreting the casting... or she didn't want to tell them the truth.

He placed his hands on her shoulders as she hunched over the table.  "Stella?" he asked quietly.

"She's not here," Stella murmured.

"Not where?" James pressed.

"Not in our world," Stella replied, finally looking up.

"What does that mean?" James demanded, trying not to show how affected he was at the thought that Elizabeth might no longer be alive.  Judging from the suppressed irritation he could see on Stella's face, he wasn't succeeding very well.

"It means... what do you think it means?" she demanded, as if she couldn't believe he was being so obtuse.  "It means she is not currently occupying the same plane of existence as we are!  Can I put it more plainly?"

"Yes," James snapped back.  "Dead or not dead—which is she?"

"I don't know!" Stella hissed.  "I said this would be imprecise, and it is.  I don't know if she's dead or alive.  It certainly looks like she's dead, but I can't say for certain.  The Moon is the card of illusion and things being not as they seem," she finished loftily.

James heaved a great sigh, feeling the headache pounding full-on behind his eyes.  "But what am I supposed to tell Weatherby?" he asked helplessly.

Stella sighed in return, and then stood, reaching up to place her fingers on his temples, rubbing them gently.  James might've imagined it, but it seemed that the throbbing lessened at the touch of her hands.  "I'm sorry," she apologised quietly, voice low.  "I'm sorry I can't give you certainty."

"I'm sorry I expected it of you," James apologised in turn.  "And... and I'm sorry our first conversation in two months involved her."

She smiled and softened, a little, at that, and James got the sense that he'd been forgiven.  "It's all right.  It's for Weatherby.  I wish I could tell him, with certitude, that Jones was wrong.  But I can't."

There didn't seem to be anything else to say—and, at any rate, Turner Senior inserted himself into their conversation.  "Stella, you're leaving?"

"So it would seem," Stella replied, trying not to beam too obviously as she turned to put the cards away.  "Could you get the pots, please?"

Turner got the pots, but he looked... well, he looked eerily like Swann had looked when he'd heard that Elizabeth might be dead.  He walked like a man asleep, and his faded blue eyes were stricken and wide.  Whenever Stella passed close to him, his fingers seemed to twitch, as if he were on the brink of reaching out to grab her and keep her with him.

James didn't know if Stella was aware of this—at least, until she gave him a significant look and asked, "Perhaps you might go fetch someone to carry all this above?"

With a nod of assent, James went to enlist some soldiers for heavy lifting, leaving his wife alone with a man he knew to be in love with her.  Of course, after four months in close quarters, they were likely friends, and friends would like a moment to bid each other farewell.

 _I hope she bloody appreciates this_ , James thought irritably.  Friend or not, he was still leaving his wife alone with a Turner.

* * *

 

The minute James was out of sight, Bill turned to her and came close as he repeated, "You're leaving?"  He was very obviously heartbroken—even if Stella hadn't been able to see through him, his blue eyes carried all his feelings for anyone to see.

"You knew it would happen one day," Stella reminded him gently, suppressing the urge to step away.  Bill always came too close to her; he was her friend, of course, but the only person she ever wanted that close was her husband. "I was never going to be here forever.  Even if I weren't leaving now, I'd be gone in another three months, at the latest.  This was always temporary."

"I know," Bill agreed hoarsely.  "I just... I thought I had you for longer."

Stella made her voice as gentle as she could.  "Bill, you never had me at all."

At that point, there was a great tromping of footsteps down the stairs.  Stella stepped back just as James and a handful of soldiers emerged and came over to the open cell.

"Lord Beckett's assigned you a cabin on the _Endeavour_ ," James told her.  "We'll put all your things in there."

"Thank you," Stella said, smiling.  It was so good to see him again. 

She had missed him, very much, during the months they'd stayed apart.  And though it had hurt, the separation seemed to have worked.  Aside from the unfortunate discussion (which veered almost into an argument) regarding That Woman (which had been thankfully brief and for which James had surprisingly apologised for after), they seemed to be back to normal.  Mostly, of course.  Stella was now unfortunately aware of her physical and emotional reaction to him, and equally aware that she wasn't as good at hiding things as she once was.  She'd been flung too far open and scraped too raw to be able to close herself up again so soon.  But hopefully there would be time to mend, if she was done with this place.

Only one thing left to do.

The marines awkwardly manoeuvred her trunks and boxes up the stairs and were soon gone, but James hung back, waiting for her.  "A moment more, please," Stella requested.  "I will join you on deck presently."

Her husband looked at her for a long moment, but he seemed to be getting better at hearing what she left unsaid (either that, or she was much less able to control her reactions than she'd thought) and nodded.  Before going, however, he glared hard at Bill; it seemed the bad blood between him and anyone named 'Turner' would not be so easily laid to rest.  Then he was up the stairs and gone.

Once they were alone, Stella turned back to Bill, who was looking no less miserable.  But before she could say anything, he spoke first.  "Do you think it could've been different if I hadn't... if I wasn't like this?" he asked, gesturing to the coral on his shoulders.

Stella sighed.  "Do you want the truth, or the comfortable lie?"

"The truth, of course," Bill said, looking surprised that she'd thought he'd like otherwise.

"The truth, then, is this: if we'd met before, when you were still alive and I was still unmarried, you would've known me only as Black Stella, the Wind-Witch of Tortuga," she replied, laying out the brutal truth as he'd requested. "You would have been just another pirate that wanted something from me.  I would've scorned you, and you would've feared me.  If you were at all able to look past the persona I presented and attempted to charm me, I would've dismissed you at once.  You were not what I was looking for, back then; I wanted nothing to do with pirates of any kind.  I would have never permitted you to call me anything other than Miss Bell, and you would've only interacted with me during the times we were doing business.  In truth, Bill, I would've been far more distant from you then than I am now," Stella finished, looking evenly at him.

Her friend looked tired and dejected, and she sighed.  "You never would've liked me, anyway, if circumstances weren't what they were," she pointed out gently.  "If I weren't the only living person you ever interacted with... if I weren't the only person who could tell you of your son.  If I weren't your only option, Bill, you never would've looked twice at me."

Bill looked slightly affronted.  "I might've," he protested.

Stella shook her head indulgently. "No," she corrected him.  "You wouldn't have."

"Then I'd have been a fool who would've missed so much," Bill replied fiercely, taking a step closer and putting his cold fingers against her cheek.  "So much."  He sighed, and began to stroke her face.  "I wish I could've known you before.  Maybe... maybe we would've liked each other."

Stella bit her tongue.  The truth was, she would've terrified him, and all he would've gotten from her was perhaps a measure of tolerance.  There could never have been anything between them, ever.  But Bill didn't need to know that.  The poor man was going to be trapped in the brig of the _Flying Dutchman_ for God knows how long.  What harm was there in letting him have his dreams?

Besides, it was impossible not to feel flattered at such a show of devotion.  Stella smiled at him, and patted the fingers on her face.  But she made sure to pull back before she gave anything that could be called undue encouragement.  "I have something for you," she said, reaching into her pocket and pulling out the star she'd embroidered and bound memory in.  The little star, being made of her hair, was black, and she'd sewn it on a little piece of yellow lawn that had come off of one of her dresses some weeks ago.

"A star for me," Bill said, smiling a little as softly he ran his index finger over the embroidery.

"It's more than that," Stella told him.  "It's a spell for memory, sewn from my own hair on the night of the full moon.  Keep that, and every time you touch it, you'll remember me anew.  Jones can't take those memories from you... provided you still have the star, of course."

Oh dear.  Judging from the way Bill was now looking at her, her gift could be considered undue encouragement.  He reached out to touch her hair, stroking it gently as he'd stroked the star embroidered of it.  "Thank you," he said hoarsely, gazing at her so intensely she could almost feel it on her skin.  It made her uncomfortable.

Stella shrugged.  "I couldn't just leave you alone here and let Jones dull your memories.  Not when I had the power to correct it," she demurred.  "It would be a horrible way to repay your kindness."

"I ask no payment," Bill insisted.

"I know.  This was an act of friendship," Stella replied, trying not to be too pointed about it.

Bill drew in a quick breath, and let his hand fall from her hair to rest on her shoulder.  "I'll miss you so much," he whispered.

"I shall miss you too."  And it was true, in a way.  Bill was her friend.  She wouldn't have come through this ordeal half so well as she had without him.  But that didn't mean she was prepared to allow him liberties with her person, so she pulled away and moved to collect her hat and parasol.  "If I see your son, I shall do all in my power to help him along.  I'll help him free you, if I can," she promised.  "Goodbye, Bill."

"Goodbye, Stella," Bill said gruffly.  But as she passed him on the way out, he grabbed her arm.  "Just once," he rasped, putting his other hand at her waist and leaning in to kiss her.

Stella, due mostly to surprise, stood still and permitted the embrace.  Bill's lips were cold and clammy; his face and body covered in barnacles, mussels, coral, and other items that could scratch her, were Bill not careful.  But he was careful, holding her gently and moving his lips against hers.  It was wet, awkward, and quite unpleasant.

When the kiss ended, Bill didn't seem to want to let her go.  He clasped her against him and rested his forehead—still mostly unmarred—against hers.  Stella allowed it for a minute or two, and then stepped back, though Bill maintained his hold on her.  "Just once," she repeated firmly.  Then, more kindly, "Bill, you have to let me go."

"I know," he agreed disconsolately.  Bill took a deep breath, steeling himself, and then removed his hands.  "Goodbye," he said again, retreating to the shadows of the brig and collapsing where Stella once used to sleep.

Stella left the brig and moved the stairs, mounting them carefully and not looking back.  She looked up, and saw James standing on the landing above the brig.  He said nothing, just looked at her; Stella wondered what he'd heard... or seen.  But she said nothing either—she just accepted the hand he extended and let him help her up onto the deck.

* * *

 

And so Stella Norrington left the _Flying Dutchman_ , after nearly four months on it.  She wasn't perhaps as happy about it as she might've been, after learning that the price of her freedom was that her husband had to take her place in prison.  Of course, James had considerably more resources at his disposal, so she wasn't overly-anxious on his behalf.

Especially since, at the moment, most of her anxiety was focussed on Governor Swann, who was not taking the news of his daughter's death well—he was just standing at the rail, staring vacantly off at the ocean.

Once she was settled in the stateroom that was to be hers for the voyage back to Jamaica, Stella went above in search of Weatherby.  Despite the unfortunate nature of his daughter, Swann himself had never been anything but kind to her.  He could never replace her own, late father, just like Stella could never replace Elizabeth. But, as Weatherby had suggested on the morning of her wedding, they could make do.  And they had been making do... at least, during the increasingly rare occasions that they were together.  If there was any comfort in her to give, it was his.

"Governor?" Stella said quietly as she came up behind him.

Weatherby turned at her voice, and gave her a weak smile.  "Stella," was all he said, before returning his gaze to the ocean.

They were silent for a long time, as Stella tried to think of something to say.  "She might not be dead, Weatherby," was all she could think of to break the silence.  "Don't believe Jones' word alone.  It is not worth very much."

The Governor sighed, and turned to look at her again.  But as the light hit his face, Stella suddenly couldn't see his features anymore.  His face had been overlaid by the image of a skull, bleached white by time.

Stella couldn't restrain the gasp, or the urge to shrink away.  She knew well enough what that omen meant: Weatherby Swann was not long for the world.

He was looking at her, slightly confused.  "What is it?" he asked.

"Nothing," Stella demurred, trying to bring herself under control.  "The baby... she's just kicking me again."

Swann didn't look like he believed her, but he was also too apathetic at the moment to protest.  He came forward and patted her arm gently.  "You'll be all right, Stella.  James will look after you," he said kindly.

"What do you mean?" Stella asked nervously.  Did Weatherby know of his impending death.  Or... or was he intending to bring it about himself?

"I... I can't stay here.  I cannot," Weatherby explained brokenly.  "Even if... I just can't take not knowing either way.  I... mean to go back to England.  I wash my hands of this entire business.  If... if Elizabeth is alive, she can find me there."  He smiled again at her, perhaps seeing the sheen of tears she couldn't hide.  "Though I promise to write."

Stella nodded, and bit her lip, trying to will the tears away.  She could still see the Death's Head overlaying Weatherby's face—he didn't have much time left, not if the vision was lingering like that.  Certainly not time enough to make it across the ocean.  "Then I wish you well," she said simply, even as one of the tears in her eyes escape and rolled down her cheek.

She was already beginning to mourn.  She knew Weatherby Swann would never see England—or his daughter—again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N part deux: So yes, there is chapter 34.  I think it's the 2nd longest chapter I've ever written.  I hope that in part makes up for so long with no updates.  And I promise to try and do better.  Especially since we're getting down to the end, here—there's probably only about 10 or so chapters left!  Wowz._
> 
> _Let me know if you see a mistake.  I edit all this on my own, and sometimes I miss things._


	36. Stella Doloris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which prisons come in many forms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is definitely from 2010, and my "lost year" of unemployment.
> 
> _A/N: I am a bad, bad author.  But real life rode me hard and put me away wet.  Let me see if I can summarise quickly._
> 
> _Tried to get another job abroad, down in Latin America.  No luck; their economy is just as bad as ours. Then I tried to go to grad school.  No luck.  Seven schools all rejected me.  The economy is crap, and they have no funding.  Then my computer broke.  I got a new computer just in time to move across the country in search of a job, which I still don't have.  Now I'm having to decide whether I want to leave the country again, or stick it out here._
> 
> _And through this all my heart just went right out of writing; I couldn't produce anything of merit when I could even get up the energy to write anything down.  Existential crises do that to me, and I'm pretty much mired in one right now.  But I managed to overcome and produce sometime, so here it is.  Whether or not it's worth anything is up to you.  And I am sorry for making you all wait so long.  Hope it makes up for it._

 

 

Stella could see Jamaica again—it was a dark smudge on the horizon, visible before the sun set, growing ever closer—and she was utterly jubilant.  God in Heaven, she couldn't wait to get off the damn ocean.  She was so heartily sick of it she was almost ready to vomit—that is, if she wasn't vomiting already, due to sea-sickness.  Apparently, she would never make a sailor.

She had spent most of the voyage alternatively shadowing and avoiding Weatherby Swann.  It was... difficult.  She cared about him, of course—he'd been acting _in loco parentis_ for her since her arrival in Port Royal, and he was such a gentle, inoffensive sort of man.  But therein was the problem.  She knew he was going to die—and soon.  She was torn between wanting to spend as much time with him as she could before his death, and not wanting to see the aura that proclaimed his approaching demise clearer than the ringing of the tiny bells around her neck... or the way Mercer was stalking him.

Never mind seeing England again; Stella didn't think Mercer would let Weatherby see land.

It was cunning, of course; most of the ship was now aware that Weatherby Swann was keeping almost entirely to himself and planning to return to England as soon as possible, due to his despair over the death of his daughter.  If Swann disappeared after this voyage (or even during the tail-end of it), no one would ask questions; they'd assume he'd was grieving in private, or had already left for England.

_But I will know_ , Stella thought fiercely, gripping the wooden rail of the ship tightly.  _And I will make sure others know, too.  One day, there will be a reckoning._

She had no power to stop it.  Nothing that wouldn't endanger herself or her husband, seeing as she was on Beckett's leash along with the rest of the fleet, as well as being literally trapped in close quarters with the man.  And she wasn't virtuous or valorous enough to try and save Swann despite Beckett.  Her primary loyalty lay with her unborn child, even before James, and she would do nothing that could jeopardise her daughter.  Defying Beckett would be dangerous, and so she was forced to stand by and wait for them to kill the man she had once hoped would stand godfather for the very child she was trying to protect.  Stand by, and do nothing.

Stella hated herself for it.

She sighed deeply and clenched her hands on the rail of the ship—at this point, an expression of her turbulent emotions rather than an attempt to keep her balance.  Although she had finally (after weeks at sea) developed a pair of sea-legs, her expanding waistline rendered her balance questionable.  However, the ocean was currently gentle and as long as she was careful, she managed to get around on deck without stumbling or falling.

Not that she would have the opportunity to do either, of course.  Captain Groves was being particularly solicitous of her; when he was not assisting her himself, he had sent a midshipman to shadow her steps and ensure that she wanted for nothing, be it a lime, a hat, a warmer cloak, or an arm to lean on when the seas were rough.  She was grateful for their consideration, but she wanted to be alone.

Solitude had been nonexistent for the past few weeks; when she had not been "graced" with the dubious company of Davy Jones, she'd been in constant company with Bill Turner—something that had been increasingly awkward as said man became more clingy.  Now she was free of him (and feeling a pang of guilt for thinking of her friend in such terms), and had a stateroom to herself, in which she spent much of her time.  But if she sequestered herself for too long, someone would come knocking on her door to see if she was well.  James had apparently requested that his men keep an eye on her in his absence.

While she appreciated the sentiment and, to some extent, welcomed the care, she was desperate to be alone.  She did not feel as though she was mistress of her feelings at the moment, and was not inclined to be much in company until she was able to control herself.  Especially not with Beckett watching her closely for any sign of weakness.

And Stella was aware that she was displaying many.  Between the mood swings associated with her advancing pregnancy and the cruelties of Davy Jones, she felt open—and open was something she had not been since childhood.  She was greatly looking forward to returning home to Port Royal, where she could collect herself in private, wait for her husband, grieve for the fate of Bill Turner, and mourn the death of Governor Swann.

She did not notice that she had harboured similar thoughts about her sojourn on the _Flying Dutchman_ , and that the reality had turned out to be far different from her plans.

The sun was sinking down below the horizon in a riot of brilliant colours, and Stella resolutely turned her thoughts towards happier matters. They would reach land tomorrow, and she would finally be free of the ocean.  She remained on deck until the sky was spangled with stars, drinking in their pale light and revelling in the freedom of the open air—a welcome respite, after weeks trapped below decks in the perpetual gloom of a supernatural galleon.

The midshipman assigned to her at the moment (there were a series of four who accompanied her through all hours of the day on the orders of Captain Groves) began to shift awkwardly as the night deepened. Mr. Charles Parker did tend to lack patience; then again, he was only a boy of thirteen.  "Mrs. Norrington," he eventually ventured.  "Shouldn't you be getting inside?"

Stella turned to glance at him.  Dear child, he was so very anxious to prove himself to his superior officers—and, she suspected, to his peers, who teased him for his cherubic good looks.  And if he chose to do so by acting particularly solicitous during the duration of his assignment as her minder... well, she had been so long without kindness and respect that she was not inclined to complain.  "In a moment, Mr. Parker.  I have so missed starlight," she replied lightly.  "And I'm sure the fresh air is good for me."

Young Mr. Parker just nodded and tried not to shift impatiently.  He wanted to go join his fellows below decks, but Stella was not of a mind to curtail her enjoyment of the evening air for anyone.  Selfish, admittedly, but it was such a little thing and it made her happy.  Besides, her unwanted introspection at the hands of Davy Jones had revealed to her that she really was a selfish creature.  At least now she was aware of it.

' _For if any be a hearer of the word, and not a doer, he is like unto a man beholding his natural face in a glass: for he beholdeth himself, and goeth his way, and straightway forgetteth what manner of man he was,'_ she quoted inwardly.  _Or what manner of woman she was, such as the case may be.  Now that I have seen, I cannot forget, even if the sight before me is not to my liking._

She resolutely turned her mind away from her recent self-loathing and fixed her attention back on the sky.  Only when all hint of sunset had been erased from the horizon and the breezes were becoming chill, even for her, did she allow Mr. Parker to escort her back to her cabin.  Thus left to her own devices, she settled with a book she'd borrowed from Captain Groves, and eventually took herself off to bed.  Once again, she was left using her animate hair and her own powers to get herself undressed, and greatly looked forward to regaining the services of a lady's maid, who would take care of these things for her.  She dropped off to sleep with every anticipation of setting foot on Jamaica tomorrow.

Unfortunately, fate had other plans.

Stella awoke suddenly, opening her eyes into the darkness of her cabin.  All was quiet, save for the ubiquitous sounds that were part of being on board a ship—the creaking of timber, the slap-slap of waves against the hull, the soft breezes through the portholes.  She'd stopped waking at the sound of the ship's bells weeks ago.  There was no one in the room, no one outside the door... no reason for her to be awake at all.

But awake she was.

Realising that there was a reason for her unceremonious rousing, however unconscious of it she might be, Stella hoisted herself out of bed—no small feat when one was both alone and very pregnant.  She donned a robe and her slippers, and quietly quit her cabin, stealing softly along the halls until she emerged onto the deck, which was illuminated only by lanterns and the pallid light of a crescent moon.  There was nothing visible to give her alarm; everything seemed to be peaceful.

She closed her eyes and quieted herself, listening to her instincts, then turned and headed aft, keeping to the darkest parts of the shadows.  For one, she didn't know what she'd say if anyone found her wandering the decks at this hour, wearing nothing but a robe with her hair writhing free down her back, and occasionally reaching out to ropes and rails to steady her waddling gait.  And for another, there was a formless feeling of dread that hung heavy over her head as she crept closer and closer to the stern.

Finally, Stella caught sight of a dark figure at the rail, carrying a body—a dead body.  She had seen enough corpses in the last few months to be able to recognise their shape and movements, even though the light was poor.  Understanding followed soon after recognition—there were very few reasons for carrying a corpse around on the _Endeavour_ this late at night. And the moment she truly registered what she was witnessing, she stopped cold, clinging to the mizzen.  She savagely bit off a gasp, biting her lower lip fiercely. The last thing she wanted to do right now was call any attention to herself.

Mr. Mercer might not be able to kill her, but he would certainly make things uncomfortable.

Stella kept her eyes on him as she retreated silently to a cannon, ducking behind it and crouching as best she could in the shadows.  Spells were of no use to her now—Mercer could sense them.  But she needed to watch this.  Someone had to bear witness. 

_Sometimes I despise being right_ , she thought sadly.

And she was right.  Weatherby Swann would never see land or his daughter again.  He was dead—very newly dead.  Beckett must have decided they were close enough to Jamaica and given the order.  And now Mercer was disposing of the body.

She watched silently as Mercer unceremoniously heaved the corpse over the rail and then turned and strolled back below, and raged inwardly at the disrespect.  Once the assassin was gone, Stella stood and moved to the aft rail, clenching her fists and staring down at the sea which had just swallowed the closest man she'd had to a father for nigh on ten years.

"I'm so sorry, Weatherby," she whispered to the dark ocean.  "I'm sorry this happened.  I'm sorry I could do nothing to stop it.  I'm sorry you won't live to see your daughter, or mine—I had wanted you as godfather, you know.  I'm sorry you get no better burial than this, and I'm sorry the only words you'll get spoken over you come not from a priest but from a miserable, selfish, coward of a witch."  She bit her lip again, trying to forestall the inevitable weeping.

Once she felt a little more composed, she swallowed around the lump in her throat and began to recite the Lord's Prayer, wondering in the back of her mind how many more lonely, makeshift funeral services she would be called on to perform. "Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy Name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen."

She swallowed again, trying to force back the tears. Such a waste of life—Weatherby had only wanted to protect his child, which was something Stella was coming to understand better and better.  There wasn't a thing she wouldn't do for her unborn daughter, who was safe inside her body. Poor Swann was only trying to protect his only child, out among pirates somewhere in the world.  And now, thanks to Beckett's complete lack of tact, he had died thinking she was dead.  Perhaps, then, he hadn't minded dying, thinking that his death would reunite him with both his late wife and daughter?

Aware that she was grasping at straws in an effort to make herself feel better, Stella continued in a shaking voice, "We therefore commit his body to the deep, to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body when the Sea shall give up her dead, and the life of the world to come, through our Lord Jesus Christ, who at his coming shall change our vile body, that it may be like his glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself."

Had it been fast?  Violent, like the deaths of the sailors on board the _Dutchman_?  Had Swann been conscious of what was happening?  Did Mercer torment him before he murdered him?  Or was it soft and gentle, like slipping away in his sleep?  How had it been done?  A knife?  A garrotte?  Poison?  She supposed she could find out, but Stella wasn't entirely sure she wanted to know, even as she was honest enough with herself to realise that she would be seeking answers later.  Her curiosity would pique her until it was satisfied—that damnable curiosity which got her into this mess in the first place.

Feeling increasingly wretched, Stella took a deep breath and finished the recitation of the liturgy. "In the sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lour Jesus Christ, we commend to Almighty God our shipmate Weatherby Swann, and we commit his body to the depths."  At this, her voice broke, and she finished with tears streaming down her cheeks.  "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The Lord bless him and keep him. The Lord make his face to shine upon him and be gracious unto him. The Lord lift up his countenance upon him, and give him peace. Amen."

She wiped her face with the sleeve of her robe and gazed down at the dark, turbid waters that had swallowed the body of her friend, churned up in the wake of the ship's passing.  She wondered morbidly if sooner or later she might not end up thrown to those waters herself... or her brother, or her husband, and had to choke back a sob at the mere thought of another grief to bear.  _How much more can I take?_ she wailed inwardly.

Her daughter kicked her, suddenly, cutting through her despair, and Stella put her hand over her swollen belly, rubbing the bulge softly.  _I must take whatever comes. I have to be strong for the both of us,_ she reminded herself.  _I have to protect the baby... even at the expense of everyone else. And if that means standing aside while Beckett and his miserable pet murder their way through my friends—_

She forcibly stopped that line of thought.  For one, there was no sense borrowing trouble.  And for another... well, she wasn't sure where the line was.  How far could Beckett and Mercer go before she could no longer remain passive?  Would she be able to protect her child at the expense of Anne Witcher, or Isaac... or James?

She didn't want to know the answer.

_I am a bad person,_ she thought dully.  _But hopefully I will be a good mother.  It's all I have left to me, now._

With a sigh and a lingering look at the sea, she turned around and made her way back to her cabin.  Sleep was a long time coming.

* * *

 

The next morning, Stella dressed in the most sombre clothing she had available.  The rather plain, darkish grey-blue _robe volante_ , made to wear during pregnancy, which she trimmed with the ragged black ribbons from her much-worse-for-the-wear cloak (which was actually more of a dingy dark brown after months on the _Flying Dutchman_ ) didn't even qualify as half-mourning (especially since there was only enough ribbon from the cloak to wind around the cuffs of her sleeves), but it was all she had.  Which was for the best, she allowed.  In the eyes of the rest of the world, she had no cause for full mourning, and donning black would have raised questions that Beckett did not want answered.  Nevertheless, she would honour Weatherby Swann in this small way.  She also wanted Beckett to know that she, at least, was aware of his crimes.

_One day_ , she thought grimly, concentrating as she coiled her animate hair on top of her head, _I will see him answer for his actions.  One day, there will be a reckoning_.

She exited her cabin on the arm of another young midshipman—a Mr. Joseph Sewall—who escorted her to Lord Beckett's stateroom.  Beckett had issued standing orders that she was to take meals with him.  While Stella would have almost preferred not eating to dining with Beckett, she wasn't about to starve herself and her unborn daughter to make a point.  It was a close thing, though—meals with Beckett were hellish.  They needled each other constantly, and Stella was well aware that she was less thick-skinned and inscrutable than was her usual wont, and that Beckett was revelling in every flinch and grimace he was able to prod out of her.  And they were many.  It was, in many ways, a slightly more civilised version of what Davy Jones had been doing to her during her time on the _Flying Dutchman_.  Both he and Beckett picked at her constantly, poking at her weaknesses, trying to hurt her and break her in the best ways they knew.

_I'll be shed of them both soon enough_ , she assured herself as she neared the doors of the stateroom.  _I'll be home soon enough, and I don’t mean to set foot off solid land for years after this_.

"Good morning, Stella," Lord Beckett greeted mildly as Mr. Sewall squired her to the breakfast table.

"Lord Beckett," she acknowledged icily, carefully seating herself.  She tried to hide the glare she had fixed on his white-wigged head the moment she entered the room, but she hated him fiercely and was no longer very good at hiding it.  Perhaps because he had just last night done something truly reprehensible, or perhaps because he kept taking liberties with her that she had not permitted him and did not want.  Likely both.

They set to breakfast with no further words.  Beckett was mostly focussed on a pile of papers which he perused idly as he ate.   That was usually how things went; he ignored her until he wished to say something hurtful.  Stella ate mechanically, her rage a burning coal in her stomach.  How dare he sit and eat eggs and toast as though he hadn't used those lips to order the murder of a crown-appointed official?  How dare he shuffle those papers as though unaware of the blood on his hands?  How dare he treat people like this—like puppets to be discarded when they were no longer amusing?

Finally, she could keep silent no longer. She cut her eyes to the vacant place at the table and asked pointedly, her fury all too present in her voice, "Is Governor Swann not joining us this morning?"

That got his attention, and Beckett's impassive blue eyes immediately moved to her, taking in the black trim on her sleeves, the tightness around her eyes, and the white-knuckled grip she had on her fork.  It was a very telling inquiry—both of them were entirely aware that Swann had seldom dined outside his quarters since learning of the supposed death of his daughter.  Between the question, the black ribbon, and Stella's poorly-concealed rage, Beckett realised that she was very much aware of last night's events.

But he merely acknowledged the new intelligence with a twitch of his eyebrows.  He met her burning eyes and replied coolly, "No.  I believe he is seeing to his packing.  He intends to depart for England with all possible haste once we anchor in Port Royal."

"Oh, I am certain of what he intends," Stella retorted, her tone low and ugly, tightening her grip on the fork to prevent herself from flying across the table and stabbing it into Beckett's eyes.  "But is he not departing with undue haste?"

Beckett's cold blue eyes flicked to her teacup, which had started rattling in its saucer, then to her hair, which she could feel slithering around restlessly on top of her head, and then back to her face.  The expression of condescending, amused contempt fed her fury to new heights and made the saucer, the plate, and the cutlery start shaking along with the teacup.  A distant part of her understood the contempt and felt it echoed in herself—she hadn't lost control and made objects move like this for more than a decade; it was a juvenile behaviour she had thought herself long since shed—but the majority was seething that he had the gall to look at her like that.  Like she was a pet who had done something naughty.

That patronising, smug little smile was still on his face as Beckett responded, "Hardly.  Swann knows he serves no more purpose here, and that he may as well sail for England with all speed."

Stella took a deep breath.  The dishes stopped their noisy shaking, but the teacup was still vibrating with the force of her unsettled emotions and her hair was still restive, curling around her ears and down her neck. "Without a word to anyone?" she asked sharply.  Surely he had to be aware that Swann's sudden disappearance would raise more than a few eyebrows.  'Departure for England' notwithstanding, no one in Port Royal would have seen the governor for weeks, and the servants would know that none of his possessions were taken along when Swann 'departed for England'.  Rumours would begin to fly, and questions would be raised no matter what the official story happened to be.  Was Beckett truly so indifferent to the court of public opinion?  Was he truly so proud as to believe himself above justice?  Because sooner or later, the Crown would hear of it, communications lockdown or no.  Was it carelessness or arrogance that made him so heedless?

"He feels it is best to have a swift, clean break."  Translation: Beckett became impatient.  It was carelessness, then.  Somehow, that made it worse.

"Was it swift?" she hissed quietly, punctuated by the soft rattling of china against china.  She asked this question, knowing that it was exposing her soft underbelly, so to speak—revealing that she cared too much, perhaps, about Swann and the manner of which he met his end, revealing a weakness she never would had dared show if she was more herself.  But she couldn't bear to think of poor Weatherby suffering any more than he needed to.

"Imminently so," Beckett replied with an amused smirk, dropping the pretence of 'departing to England' entirely.  "We are not barbarians here—not like Jones and his crew of miscreants."

At least that was something.  At least he didn't suffer. Stella took a deep breath. The teacup stopped its rattling, and her hair coiled itself back on top of her head.

As she finished her meal, she asked, "At what time will we be making land?  I still have some packing to do."

"Packing?" Beckett repeated, looking up from his papers as he sipped his tea.

"Yes, packing," Stella said snidely.  "Putting your belongings into a trunk for the purpose of having them transported elsewhere.  Packing."

Beckett raised his eyebrows quizzically, but there was a malicious gleam in his eyes. "Are you intending to go somewhere?" he asked politely.

Stella frowned at him, wondering if he was being intentionally dense.  "I am intending to return home to Port Royal.  As was agreed."

"Agreed?" Beckett parroted, adopting a politely curious expression.  There was nothing in his countenance or his voice to give it away, but Stella just knew he was gleeful about something.  It flavoured the air around him like the smell of citrus after peeling an unripe grapefruit.

"We agreed, when I allowed you to place me on the _Flying Dutchman_ , that I would be off that ship come February," Stella reminded him slowly, feeling a sting of foreboding that she couldn't quite put a name to.  Between her apprehension and Beckett's merriment, it was clear that something was going to go wrong.  _And wouldn't that be a change_ , she thought bitterly to herself.

"And indeed you are," Beckett noted, gesturing to their surroundings.

"Thus, I will be returning home," she concluded, trying to suppress the compulsion to make it a question.  She was returning home, after all this time, to her quiet home in Port Royal with her little garden and her bed and servants to lace up her dresses and help her with the stairs.  It was time to put down the mantle of witch and pick up that of wife and mother, though her husband was still absent and her child not yet born.  And although she would enjoy having time to synthesise and record everything she had learned about the _Flying Dutchman_ and Davy Jones, she would wait and do so when it wasn't so bitter to think about it.

"That was not part of our agreement," Beckett said, shaking his head.

Stella went still, and turned a look on him that would have had lesser men cringing away. "I beg your pardon?"

"We agreed you would be off the _Dutchman_ before you gave birth—which, as I am sure we have both noticed, you are.  But there was nothing in our agreement about returning you to land," Beckett pointed out mildly. "No, Stella, I am afraid I still have need of you here—you know  so many things, after all.  You will not be returning to Port Royal for some time."

The teacup started rattling again.  She understood how it was; this was punishment for knowing what he did to Swann.  "How much time?" she demanded through clenched teeth.

"Until such a time as I no longer require your services," Beckett replied with an indifferent shrug.

"And what then?" Stella spat, to the background of shaking porcelain. "When you no longer need me, will I 'depart for England' as well?"

Beckett gave her a scornful glance, as if he were disappointed in her. "Of course not.  You're far too valuable to... 'send away', and I daresay the Admiral would have something to say should you leave for England without him."  He smiled thinly.  "You will return to Port Royal eventually, Stella—a ship is no place to raise an infant, and your husband will receive a new posting somewhere down the line.  But from time to time, you will need to accompany the fleet.  Never fear, though—I will ensure your child is well looked after by a... capable staff."

She understood what he was saying.  She was still being used as surety against James' good behaviour, and vice versa. They were going to be dancing on Beckett's strings for however so long as he was there to hold them.  He would use their daughter as leverage, leaving the child in the hands of his agents while he played with her parents like puppets.  Norrington _la fille_ would never know the kind of home Stella wanted for her, because Beckett meant to scatter her family to the winds. It was repulsive.

Her rage flared, incandescent and overwhelming, for one moment as she saw her future as Beckett wanted it—bleak, lonely, and painful.  Her teacup shattered.

Beckett raised a brow. "Control yourself, Stella.  I understand your disappointment, but you agreed long ago to play your part in this enterprise," he said coolly.

"I never agreed to this," Stella ground out, surrounded by a dark corona of writhing black hair.

" _Caveat emptor_ ," was all Beckett said in return as he stood from the table and retreated to his desk.  _Let the buyer beware_.

Understanding that she had been dismissed and aware that she would not have hold of her temper for much longer if she remained in proximity to Beckett, Stella threw down her napkin and left, retiring to her cabin.  She was in no condition to see anyone else at the moment—her hair was still uncontrolled and very obviously animate and she was still fuming, to the point where angry tears were beginning to gather in her eyes.

Eventually the rage was banked, and a more subdued anger laced with despair took over.  She couldn't let Beckett run her life like this.  But her only recourse was the Greek Fire.  There was nothing she could do but hope that it would turn out all right—she was living under Beckett's thumb, and he had just made it very clear that it was going to be her position for quite a long time.  Every action she took would be clearly scrutinized; thus, she was left to sit back and watch others act, and hope that everything would come up roses.

She hated it.  Stella had been directing her own fate since she was thirteen.  Now, to realise that she had no hand in anything at all and was completely at the mercy of everyone else... it was loathsome.  But there was simply too much at stake—the Greek Fire, her brother, her husband, her daughter, her entire future, and the fates of so many other people who would be forced to live under Beckett's tyranny if he was left to run unchecked—for her to do otherwise.

"'What fates impose, that men must needs abide; it boots not to resist both wind and tide,'" she whispered to herself.  It was cold comfort indeed, especially since her hopes of being free and safe and home had just been turned to dust in one of the cruellest ways possible.

_When will this be over?_ she wondered despairingly, as she buried her face in her hands and let the tears fall.

* * *

 

Beckett, knowing that he had gotten one up on Stella Norrington, smiled.  Everything was proceeding according to plan.

An hour or so later, he felt the miniscule shift in the air which meant that Mercer had joined him.  He didn't bother looking up from his papers.  "You were seen, last night," he announced without preamble.  "I specifically requested that there be no witnesses."

Mercer was silent a moment, apparently puzzling out the identity of the witness. "She's a cunning creature, sir," he eventually remarked, correctly guessing the only person on board who could have seen him on his errand last night. "I'm certain she's the only one who saw."

"I certainly hope so.  Thankfully, it seems that her time spent with Davy Jones has made her much less subtle—she revealed outright that she knew.  And while I can order her silence, I have no such recourse should there be other, unknown witnesses with no reason to hold their tongues."  Beckett raised his gaze to meet Mercer's.  "Sloppy, Mercer.  Very sloppy."

Mercer's eyes gleamed an unholy red for a very brief moment.  Otherwise, his craggy face remained entirely impassive.

Beckett went on, "Of course, Stella does have a habit of sticking that pointed nose of hers into things best left alone, so perhaps it is not entirely your fault.  Nevertheless, it seems that both Norringtons are in possession of knowledge I would rather they did not have.  Keep a close eye on her—especially when she is in contact with her husband.  I don't want them sharing stories.  Shadow her constantly if you must, but the finer details regarding the Heart and the fate of Swann are things I do not want passing between them."  Mercer nodded, and Beckett continued, "Eventually, I will want you watching the situation on the _Dutchman_ , but we must make sure Stella is cowed first. Her place is at my feet, not at my back with a knife.  So to speak, of course."

"And the Admiral?" Mercer asked.  The assassin _cum_ secretary had made no bones about his belief that Admiral Norrington was just as (if not more) dangerous than his wife.

"The Admiral will have his hands full dealing with Jones.  I've already ordered his silence in regards to the Heart, so he is the lesser threat at the moment," Beckett dismissed.  He appreciated Mercer's cautiousness, but found it unnecessary.  The female was almost always more dangerous than the male, and it was Stella they needed to watch out for.

Or so he thought.

"Any word on our friend from Singapore?" he inquired, changing the subject.  There was little more to be said about the Norringtons, and it was getting to the time when Sao Feng was scheduled to arrive in the Caribbean.

" _The Empress_ was sighted near Barbados earlier this week," was Mercer's prompt reply.  "We can expect a rendezvous within the month."

"Excellent.  I look forward to ironing out the finer details of our business arrangement.  I am certain it will be... profitable," Beckett commented, looking forward to filling some of the holes in his intelligence regarding the Brethren Court and the Pirate Lords.  "The new conscripts should be delivered within a fortnight," he added, moving to the next item on his list.  "You'll oversee the crewing of the ships."

"Aye, sir." Mercer's voice was laced with subdued pleasure at the idea of being able to witness and inflict a measure of discomfort on others.

Any commentary on Mercer's subtle sadism would be hypocritical in the extreme, so Beckett ignored it and went on. "Any further whispers of discontent?"

"The usual, sir.  They are hard to pin down."

"Because they are nowhere or because they are everywhere?" Beckett asked with an arch of his brow.

"The latter, sir," Mercer replied with a miniscule frown.

Beckett turned back to his papers.  "Unsurprising. I did not undertake this enterprise expecting to be liked.  Let them hate, so long as they fear.  So long as the rabble does as they're told and the grumbling is not heard by important ears, I hardly care what they say of me."

"And if it goes beyond mere grumbling?"

"Then I trust you will know what to do."

* * *

 

James Norrington did not understand how Stella managed to last nearly four months, alone and pregnant and almost constantly under mental assault, on the _Flying Dutchman_ without going stark, raving mad.  He was feeling on edge himself, and he'd only been here two weeks with a full squadron of marines, his own cabin and a substantial amount of leverage over the malicious captain.  Between the substandard quarters, the barely-human crew, Davy Jones' occasional fits of extremely thunderous musical angst, and the way the ship itself kept diving underwater and popping back up like some kind of demented cork, the ship was a madhouse.  Judging by the twitchiness that was running rampant among his men, they all agreed as well.

They were on their way to rendezvous with the _Endeavour_ and deliver the first batch of prisoners, so at least the men would have a chance to reconnect with the world outside the _Dutchman_.  James made a mental note to broach the idea of rotating shifts aboard the ghostly galleon with Groves and Beckett, since some of the marines looked about ready to crack.

Perhaps it was an aura the _Dutchman_ emitted. Many of the ships they hunted down barely put up a fight at all.  There would be some exchange of cannon fire, perhaps, but for the most part the minute the ship was sighted the white flag went up.  And if the ship didn't surrender immediately upon sighting the _Dutchman_ , the certainly did the moment the crew started swinging over.  There had hardly been any fighting at all; they merely hunted down pirate ships, captured them, took the crew prisoner, and plundered and sank the ships.  Apparently Jones' reputation (or the fearful aura the ship generated) was enough to take the fight right out of most sailors.  And now they had a brig full of pirates to deliver to Beckett, who were faring just as badly on the ship as the marines who captured them—worse, really, since they were prisoners.  But the ship seemed to exert a kind of malign influence on all the living people who dwelled there, making them twitchy and fearful—even some of the hardened sailors who had survived the Isla de Muerta and were thus at least slightly familiar with the more supernatural aspects of life at sea.  James wasn't sure if this was some kind of paranormal problem, or just common sense.  He'd have to ask Stella when he saw her again.

He hadn't been down to the brig since he'd taken her out of it.  It made him... uncomfortable to be down there.  It really was a miserable area, and thinking of Stella locked down there for months gave him a queer feeling in his stomach.  Especially now that the cells—including the one Mrs. Norrington had called home—were packed with pirates.  He wasn't sure how he felt about that—about having a space that had been hers taken over by doomed pirates.  Of course, there was also the idea that such roommates would inconvenience William Turner the Elder, and that was a more pleasant idea.  In the end, James decided not to think about it. Most of the things he Wasn't Thinking About were in or associated with the brig, for that matter—such as William Turner, Stella, his marriage, the fate to which he was sentencing the captured men—which was why he never went there himself.  Even when the men were preparing to collect the prisoners from the cells.

James remained on deck, staring off at the horizon where he could just see a smudge that was either the _Endeavour_ or an archipelago of some kind.  Since they were actually going to meet Beckett's flagship, he assumed it was the ship.  Which was good—they could deliver the cargo and return to the hunt, which would be easier going now that they could dive down below the ocean again.  While that particular talent of the ship was strange and creepy, it was incredibly useful for ambushes.  And unless they wanted a brig full of drowned men, it was not a manoeuvre they could pull with the cells full of pirates.

All in all, despite his thoughts, Admiral Norrington was in a sanguine mood as the _Dutchman_ sailed up to meet the _Endeavour_.  They dropped anchor and anchored the gangplank as the British sailors brought the prisoners on deck, the shackles clanking cacophonously over the rhythmic march of the marines.  Mercer was there on the Endeavour, watching impassively as Norrington directed the prisoners across, following after.

"Good catch," Mercer noted flatly.

"Quite," was Norrington's terse reply.  He didn't like Mercer, and had no reason to pretend since Mercer was entirely aware that Norrington didn't like him.

"Lord Beckett is in the stateroom," Mercer said simply.

Taking the comment as an oblique order to report, Norrington went, grinding his teeth all the way.  He kept an eye out for Groves, hoping to have some time with his friend before returning to exile, but the Captain of the _Endeavour_ was nowhere to be seen.

Beckett was seated at his desk, as usual, and glanced up as Norrington entered.  "Admiral.  How was the hunting?" he inquired, setting his quill back in the inkwell.

"Fruitful," James replied shortly. "We sank three ships and captured fifty-seven men."

"Well done," Beckett nodded, looking pleased.  "That more than doubles the number of conscripts.  It's always pleasant to have one's faith rewarded.  How go matters on the _Dutchman_?  I trust Jones has been well behaved?"

"By his standards, his behaviour has been absolutely angelic," James replied dryly.  "However, the environment on the _Dutchman_ does seem to take a toll on the nerves of the men stationed there.  I believe a rotation of duty might be prudent, if only to ensure that all the men retain their sanity."

Beckett gave him a long, measuring look which James met head on—there was nothing wrong with suggesting a rotation.  Eventually, the Lord nodded and picked up his quill, making a notation on one of the papers on his desk.  "I will take this under advisement, and deliver your orders the next time we rendezvous," he said blandly.

James ground his teeth together in irritation.  This was a good idea, and Beckett knew it.  Beckett would, in all likelihood, acquiesce to this request; there was sense in the idea of rotation.  But, in his tradition of not letting his subordinates think for themselves, Beckett wouldn't allow it right away.  He had to wait, to ensure that everyone knew that nothing happened without his knowledge and consent.  In essence, James felt, Beckett was compromising the efficiency of the fleet with this behaviour; however, there was also no reasoning with him, either.

The rest of the report went swiftly, and soon enough James was on his way out of the stateroom, resolved to find Groves and check on the Greek Fire.  He had noticed that a solid third of the _Endeavour's_ crew wore tiny blue stars on their collars, so it must have been going well.

As the stateroom doors closed behind him and he turned down the hall that would lead him back to the deck, his attention was caught by a voice he was honestly not expecting to hear.  "James?"

He stopped dead, and turned around.  His eyes confirmed what his ears told him.  "Stella?   What are you doing here?  I thought you were back in Port Royal." 

It was indeed his wife, standing in the corridors of the _Endeavour_.  She looked well enough—she was cleaner and more put-together—but her face still had the same pinched, hunted expression that she had worn on the _Dutchman_.  A moment's more examination revealed the possible source of that look: Mercer was hovering about ten feet behind her, like a malevolent shadow.

James approached her and embraced her awkwardly—due in equal parts to the awkwardness that had recently permeated their relationship, and to her swollen, pregnant belly.  He drew away and kept his hands on her shoulders, and Stella looked up at him with a smile that did not in any way lessen the anxiety in her face.  "It seems I am not to return to Port Royal until Lord Beckett has no further need of me," she explained.

He was willing to bet there was more to the story than that, but Mercer was still hovering close to them, and he didn't want to discuss Beckett's motives in his earshot.  "Do you know where Captain Groves is?" he asked.

"I believe he's seeing to the... prisoners," Stella replied after a moment's thought, with a peculiar wince.

"Shall we go wait for him topside, then?" James asked, offering his arm.

"Of course," Stella agreed, taking the proffered appendage and leaning heavily on it as James helped her along.

He felt her flinch slightly when they emerged on deck and saw the _Flying Dutchman_ moored to the port side, and the hand on his sleeve trembled slightly.  James led her starboard, away from the ship that had been her prison for so many weeks.  He noted also, out of the corner of his eye, that Mercer was still shadowing the pair of them, making confidential conversation impossible.

"How go things on the _Dutchman_?" Stella inquired as they promenaded along the rail.

"Better than they were for you," James replied, glancing over his shoulder.  Mercer was still there.  "Jones behaves himself, the crew keeps to themselves, and while the marines don't seem to enjoy the ambience of the vessel at least no one has snapped yet."  That reminded him of his previous musings.  "Do you suppose it possible that the ship generates some kind of... of aura that makes people afraid?  I ask because I've been noticing the effect the ship has on the sailors who see it—most of them surrender very quickly—and on the marines, who have been getting twitchier and twitchier.  And some of those men were with me at Isla de Muerta, so they are somewhat familiar with the supernatural, which leads me to believe it's something inherent in the ship—"

James forcibly stopped his rambling with a wince, aware that his discomfort with Mercer's close scrutiny and his lingering awkwardness around his wife was making him babble.  Said wife was regarding him with a bemused smile that didn't quite mask the deep wellspring of emotion in her dark eyes.  The sheer strength of the feeling displayed so openly made him feel uncomfortable, since he was unable to return it (and couldn't even properly call it what it was).  Apparently Stella noticed, since her expression smoothed out into polite fondness which didn't hide the hurt lurking below.

She had become much easier to read since her time on the _Dutchman_.  James welcomed the openness, but regretted the circumstances leading to it.

"I'm not certain if the _Flying Dutchman_ has any such air," she replied thoughtfully.  "It is possible that because it does so much crossing between life and death and has done so for many years, some sort of feeling does linger.  Also, Davy Jones laid a very malevolent curse on the ship, which may also contribute to the overall feeling of the ship.  Mostly, I expect it is a well-laid reputation."

James was stuck, however, on something she'd said earlier.  "What do you mean 'crossing between life and death'?"

"That's what it does: it crosses between the world of the living and the world of the dead," Stella explained.

James took a moment to digest this new information.  It didn't sit very well with him.  He could accept a lot about the more expansively paranormal side of life, but somehow the nuances of a ship crossing between life and death rather escaped him.  "Hmm," was all he could think of to say.  He glanced around again and noticed that Mercer was still there.  This sent a shiver down his spine.  Was there a reason he was being watched thusly?  Did Beckett have some idea that he was one of the leaders of the Greek Fire conspiracy?  Was he not trusted?  Or was it Stella they didn't trust—was she being watched? 

He desperately wanted to have confidential conversation with her—to tell her of what he had learned of the Heart and see what she thought of it, if there was some way they could turn it to their advantage, to get more information about this 'crossing' the _Dutchman_ did, to speak about the hunt for pirates and how he could never go into the brig anymore, to ask about how Governor Swann was doing, how the Greek Fire was doing, and why she wasn't at home.  But there was no way to ask any of these things because Mercer was _still hovering behind them_.  He could see his frustration reflected in Stella's eyes, and could only wonder at what she wished to talk about, but there was also fear and resignation underneath the vexation; she knew they were in a state where confidential conversation was impossible.

They stood and stared at each other.  The breeze whipped around them, spinning around Stella particularly and wafting her skirts against his legs.  James could still feel the chasm between them, gaping and wide and—at least for the moment—impossible to cross.  The spouses themselves were clearly willing to try and breach the divide, but Beckett had planted Mercer right between them.  For now, they had to remain apart.

It was profoundly unfair.

James and Stella stood together and made self-conscious, superficial conversation for a few minutes, keenly aware of Mercer's proximity, until they were saved by the approach of Captain Theodore Groves.

"Admiral!" Groves called, striding towards them with a grin.  "Forgive me for not joining you sooner—we were securing the prisoners.  Excellent to see you; you're looking well.  And Mrs. Norrington!  It's always a pleasure."  His smile was a little too bright, and his voice a little too loud, and his eyes kept moving back and forth between the Norringtons and their shadow.  It seemed Mercer's closeness made him nervous, as well.

"Captain Groves," James replied, shaking the offered hand warmly.  "I'm happy to be back among friends, however briefly."

"Hello, Captain," was all Stella offered, with a wan smile.

Groves and Norrington exchanged meaningless pleasantries about the weather and the tides and the pirates in the waters, constantly aware of Mercer's oppressive presence.  Stella eventually excused herself, leaving them to men's talk, and waddled off towards the stern.  Mercer followed her, but not before giving James a very significant look and dropping his hand to his pocket, where everyone knew his pistol was kept.  The Admiral ground his teeth, assuming that he was being told to be on his best behaviour.

"Wretched man," Groves muttered, once Mercer was out of earshot.

"Agreed," James said lowly.  "Clearly, neither myself nor my wife are trusted."

As one, they meandered towards the helm, stopping at the rail after nodding at the helmsman, who had a small star pinned to his hat.  In quiet tones they discussed the movement of the Greek Fire, staring out over the ship to disguise the topic of their conversation.  There were many on board who wore the star, but even more who did not—this was Beckett's flagship, after all, and many were loyal.  They had to step lightly, especially given Mercer's presence.

From there, they moved onto less dangerous topics.  Captain Groves agreed that a cycle of marines on the _Dutchman_ would be a good idea, and promised to bring the matter to Beckett's attention later.  Admiral Norrington asked about the reaction of the other powers in the Caribbean to Beckett's plans, and Groves informed him that they were pretending nothing was happening, insofar as he could tell.  Perhaps Beckett had more information, but he wasn't one to share anything with his subordinates.

"No man is an island," James pointed out in exasperation.  "He cannot possibly think to run the armada and manage our foreign policy alone.  What does Swann have to say of this?"

"Swann has gone back to England; I don't think he knows, or cares," Groves replied frankly.  "He barely came out of his cabin during the entire voyage back to Jamaica—Elizabeth's death broke him, and he left with all possible haste."

"Blast," James grumbled.  "And Beckett won't let us do anything on our own—all we can do is obey," he sneered, "and hope he doesn't damn the whole enterprise to hell.  Or leave us with a mess that will take years to sort out once everything is over."

"From your mouth to God's ears," Groves quipped glumly.

* * *

 

Admiral Norrington had a few more hours before he was due back on the _Dutchman_ , and after he finished talking with Groves he went in search of his wife.  When he inquired to her whereabouts, he was informed that Mrs. Norrington had gone down to the brig.

That surprised him.  Hadn't she spent enough time in the brig recently?

Apparently not, as it turned out. He found her down there, among the captured pirates, shadowed by a young midshipman, several sailors, and, once again, Mr. Mercer.  Stella moved from cell to cell, offering bandages and hard tack and a few quiet words to those who would accept them before moving on.  The majority of the pirates ignored her, or glared at her, or looked like they would cheerfully strangle her, but there were a few who gave her resigned, tired smiles and thanked her for her attention.

When she finished, she took the arm of the midshipman with her and made her way towards the door where he had been hovering and waiting for her, not examining why he wanted to avoid this place and everyone in it. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

Stella looked up at him with tired eyes.  "Being kind," was all she said.

James took her hand and helped her up the stairs, trailed by the midshipman and Mercer.  "They do not deserve your kindness," he told her coolly.  "You don't know them, and they're only pirates."

"They're still men," she replied, with quiet dignity.  "They have suffered on the _Flying Dutchman_ , like I did, and will suffer still under Beckett's yoke.  They deserve what little kindness they will accept from me, and I... owe it to them to bear witness to their fate."

"You owe them nothing," he insisted quietly, trying to keep their conversation at least slightly private.

"Perhaps not.  But I cannot close my eyes and pretend I don't see. Not anymore," she murmured, sounding haunted.

James wasn't sure what to say to that, especially since Mercer was still within earshot.  He led Stella to her cabin and pointedly shut the door behind them.  Though it undoubtedly wouldn't keep Mercer from listening at the keyhole, it at least gave the illusion of privacy.

"He won't like that," Stella noted softly, collapsing into one of the chairs and rubbing her belly.  "Beckett wants us separate."

"Why are you still here?" he asked quietly.  "I thought you were to be sent back to Port Royal."

"Nothing has changed," said Stella gloomily.  "We are still being used as surety for good behaviour—perhaps even more so now." She looked as if she would say more, fixing huge black eyes on him, but as she opened her mouth there came a curt knock on the door.  Her shoulder slumped and she called, "Yes?"

To the surprise of no one in the room, Mercer opened the door.  "Admiral Norrington, Mrs. Norrington.  Lord Beckett wishes you to join him for tea," he announced.

James felt annoyed.  Mercer hadn't even waited two minutes before barging in—Beckett really was trying to keep them apart.  But there was nothing for it.  He helped Stella up and spent the next couple of hours sipping tea and making uncomfortable conversation in Beckett's stateroom.

Before he left, he hung back in the room and waited for Beckett to acknowledge him.  It took a few minutes, but eventually the Lord looked up from his desk.  "Yes, Admiral?  Was there something you needed?"

"Is there a particular reason why my wife is still on this ship?" James inquired mildly.

"Aside from her usefulness to the fleet?" Beckett retorted, equally mild.

"She could be useful from Jamaica," James pointed out.

Beckett sighed a little, and sat back in his chair.  "Admiral, how many times are we going to have this discussion?" he asked, as though he were the one being put-upon.

"Until it resolves itself in a manner which pleases me," was James' swift reply.  "I would prefer that my wife return to Port Royal and pass the remainder of her confinement there."

"Your preference has been noted," Beckett said, not quite hiding the peevishness in his voice, and looked back down at his papers, implying dismissal in every line of his body.

"And ignored," James surmised, not bothering to hide his annoyance.

Beckett sighed again.  "Stella has no problems adhering to the terms of the bargain we struck," he remarked.  "She is content to do her duty."

"As am I," James snapped.  "However, I fail to recall the part of our bargain which stated that Mrs. Norrington was going to be dragged all over the Caribbean in a delicate condition.  If I recall correctly, her duties were to provide wind to the fleet, and she can do that as easily in Jamaica as she can here."

"I prefer to keep her close," was all Beckett said in return.  "Stella will remain with me, and serve the Armada from the _Endeavour_. And that's the end of the matter.  Is there anything else, Admiral?"

"You permitted Governor Swann to leave," James insisted.  "Why could you not allow Mrs. Norrington?"

"Governor Swann left for England, and intends to retire completely from public life," Beckett replied.  "Governor Swann had no ability to control the skies, either, so his... departure is hardly relevant.  Are we finished, Admiral?"

James was fuming by now.  "You have no honour, sir," he managed to grind out through clenched teeth.

Beckett shook his head condescendingly, as if James were a boy who had failed to learn his lessons.  "Honour is hardly relevant in this situation.  It's just good business," he said coolly.  "I hope this will be the last time we have this conversation.  Thank you, Admiral Norrington."

Realising that he'd been very firmly dismissed, and knowing that he was about to lose his temper, James bowed curtly and stormed out of the room.

He found Stella topside, watching as supplies and men were transferred over to the Dutchman.  He stood by her and watched as the marines boarded, looking better for their time away from the ship.  Stella clung to his arm and stared at the vessel silently, and Mercer was still a looming presence at their backs.

And then it was time.  Before he could extract himself and take leave of her, Stella looked up at him and spoke. "What are we becoming, James?"

He wasn't sure what she meant.  "Stella?"

"We spend our time with monsters, doing the bidding of monsters," she explained quietly.  "Will we become monsters ourselves?  I used to think I was someone so virtuous, but now..." she trailed off, then sighed.  "What will we become?  When this is over, and we are free... what sort of monsters will we be?" she whispered despairingly.

There wasn't anything he could think of to say to that.  James merely kissed her hand, bid her farewell, and walked across the gangplank to the _Flying Dutchman_.  But her words stayed with him, niggling at him as they weighed anchor and sailed off.

_When this is over, and we are free... what sort of monsters will we be?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N part deux: Well, that's it—my return to this fic.  Hopefully the next installment won't take so long to produce; I'm trying to write at least a page a day of this thing.  Anyway, I'd like it if you reviewed—I feel out of practise with writing and out of sync with the story, so some feedback would help me._


	37. Stella Orientem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stella meets Sao Feng and James introspects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's kind of a funny thing, being unemployed. You think you'll have tons of time to write, but then your days become formless and weird, your inspiration vanishes, and no writing gets done. However, during this time I was on the very threshold of getting a job, so that was nice.
> 
> _A/N: The next chapter cometh.  I was actually pretty excited to write this one.  I'm finally getting into fun territory, wherein the movie becomes the driving plot, so hopefully there will be less filler and more action, and thus the chapters will come faster.  After all, it's not like I don't have the time.  Still jobless, bah._

Stella had never seen a ship quite like the _Empress_ before, and she had seen many during her lifetime.  Many different vessels had come to Tortuga during the decade she was trapped there, and she had occasionally enjoyed observing them.  But this ship—Sao Feng's ship—was completely unlike anything she'd ever seen in the harbours before. She was practically hanging out the porthole in her cabin as the junk sailed up, trying to get a clear picture of it, while her current minder (a fourteen-year-old Scottish boy) fretted behind her and tried to get her to come back inside.

Unfortunately for her (but happily for young Mr. MacDonald's nerves), the _Empress_ sailed around to moor on the port side of the _Endeavour_ , and her cabin was on the starboard side.  Which meant that, before she could get a good enough look at the foreign ship which had been expected for some time now, it was out of her line of sight.  So she was going to have to go topside if she wanted to take a look.  And she definitely wanted to have a look; no matter what her curiosity wrought or how she damned the insatiable feeling, it was still very much a part of her, and Stella was of a mind to indulge it.

She carefully slid back into the cabin and tottered back to her settee, and the embroidery she'd abandoned the minute the wind brought her news of the approaching vessel.  But instead of taking up her needle again, she tucked the linen back into her workbag and went to fetch her hat and parasol.  She also, for a reason she couldn't articulate, grabbed her rune stones and stuck them in her pocket.  She had no idea why she needed them with her at the moment, but simply knew that she did.

"What are you doing, Mrs. Norrington?" Mr. MacDonald asked, sounding less alarmed than previously (because she wasn't hanging out the ship now) but slightly wary (because he had probably divined her intentions and didn't approve).

"Getting my things, because we're going topside to have a look at that ship," she replied easily, tying the ribbons of her hat under her chin.  She glanced over at the boy and smiled at the conflicted expression on his face.  "You can't tell me you're not curious."

The lad was clearly interested, but he was also slightly afraid.  Rumours about Sao Feng had been flying thick and fast, from the plausible to the ridiculous.  They said he was the scourge of the South China Seas.  They said he commanded a fleet of fifty ships.  They said he was known to slaughter entire islands . They said he kept a dragon in his lair in Singapore and fed it on his enemies.  They said he kept the severed heads of white sailors mounted on pikes on his ships.  They said he kept female demons at his side at all times to protect him.  They said his crew was comprised of barbaric Chinese savages who drank blood.  They said he could pass between life and death at will.  They said he ate Christian babies for breakfast and ravaged virgins at night. They said he had a pact with the devil.  They said he was the devil.  Stella didn't believe most of it, but apparently young Mr. MacDonald was a little less discriminating, and was nervous about being at all close to such a fearsome figure.

"Don't worry, Mr. MacDonald.  If need be, I'll protect you from Sao Feng," Stella said wryly when the midshipman still hesitated.

That made a dull flush rise in his freckled cheeks, and he set his jaw and stomped over.  Stella turned away to hide a smile.  Perhaps the youth was afraid of the Asian pirate, but he wasn't about to let a pregnant woman go where he feared to—it was an issue of pride.  He wouldn't be able to face his peers if Mrs. Norrington went to look at the Chinese ship and he didn't.

They made their way topside, and stepped out onto the deck.  The scene that greeted them was compelling in its strangeness, and Stella felt Mr. MacDonald's arm quivering under her hand.  _The Empress_ was moored off to the port side with a gangplank leading between the two ships, which was surrounded by red-and-blue coated marines.  She could barely see beyond the line of soldiers to the deck of the foreign ship, upon which stood many ragged, powerful men with golden skin, dark hair, and strange attire.

Curiosity dragged at her like a hurricane's winds, and she opened her parasol with a flourish.  "Shall we, Mr. MacDonald?" she asked with a smile, retaking the boy's arm.  Mr. MacDonald grinned a little, and they stepped out into the sunlight.

However, they hadn't gone two steps before they were waylaid by a sailor.  "Lord Beckett wants you, Mrs. Norrington," the man announced, doffing his hat and bowing awkwardly.

Stella's mood plummeted like a brick.  Her hands clenched involuntarily on Mr. MacDonald's arm and the handle of her parasol as a massive upwelling of irrational fury roared through her mind.  Did Beckett have to ruin everything for her?  Could he not allow her this little ray of sunlight in her already-gloomy life?  Why couldn't he wait, why couldn't he let her have this little happy moment?  Why did he have to ruin everything she enjoyed?

Once she felt mildly more in control, she unclenched her teeth and asked, "Did he say when?"

"This moment, ma'am," was the slightly sheepish reply.  "I'm to take you to the stateroom at once."

She sighed, unhappily, and closed her parasol.  "Mr. MacDonald, I shall see you later.  It seems I've been summoned," she said to her escort.  "Thank you for your company."  The gratitude was technically unnecessary, since he had been assigned to accompany her, but she was trying to be polite.  She knew that watching the Admiral's pregnant wife was not the most ideal duty for an active young man, but she was coming to appreciate the company.  After all, she told herself, hoping so hard her heart hurt, one day she might have a son of her own, (dear God, she prayed that one day she might have a son of her own—a sibling for her dear daughter, for childhood was lonely when you were all alone, a cherished brother who hopefully wouldn't be as impetuous as her own) and dealing with these young midshipmen—not boys, but not men either—would be good practise.

Young Mr. MacDonald nodded, and turned to go.  Stella accepted the sailor's arm and allowed him to lead her back to Lord Beckett's stateroom.  All too soon, she was stepping through the familiar doors, placing hat and parasol down near the doors as was her usual wont.  But what awaited her inside was very, very new.

Lord Beckett was there, of course, sitting at his prim little table with his proper little tea set.  Mercer was there with him.  But with them were three men, slightly dirty and dangerous, whom she had never seen before.  But she knew at least one of them instantly.

He was a large man, not quite as tall as James was, but strong—she was willing to bet he was layered muscle through and through, which was probably good considering the armour he wore, which was tooled with strange symbols and designs.  There were strange scars crisscrossing on his shaved head and down his cheek, and he had a strange, wispy sort of moustache and beard which she had only ever seen on the few Chinese sailors she'd encountered in her life.  But it was the eyes which truly gave him away—almond-shaped and as dark as her own, his eyes burned with a bright inner fire. Even if she hadn't possessed the otherworldly abilities she did, she still would've known him as a leader, and a dangerous man.  But as it was, she knew Sao Feng the instant her eyes landed on him, and the spirit within him scorched her sixth sense.  He might not have been a good man (that was something he was most definitely not), but he was certainly intense.

"Ah, Stella," Lord Beckett said, pulling her attention away from Sao Feng.  "Gentlemen, this is Stella Norrington, a sorceress in my employ."

"And your concubine?" Sao Feng inquired, glancing pointedly at her protruding belly and raising a scarred brow.  His voice was low and soothing and his accent was unfamiliar, but his English was quite clear.  Unfortunately.  Stella was not at all pleased at being named a whore, and least of all Lord Beckett's.

Lord Beckett merely threw fuel on the fire when he replied coolly, "Not mine."

One of the teacups on the table shattered, and suddenly every eye in the room was on her—including Sao Feng's, which now burned even brighter with a covetous, reverent intensity.  "Not anyone's," she ground out through her clenched teeth, her anger roaring up fiercely.  "I'm a wife—the Admiral's wife, as Lord Beckett does so love to overlook," she added with a sneer.

"Do try to control yourself, Stella," Lord Beckett chided, his smugness practically a separate presence.  "I'll run out of teacups if you keep on like this."

Stella literally bit down on her tongue to keep from retorting.  Though her emotions were running willy-nilly nowadays and her temper was more than a little uncertain (since she seemed to be existing in a state of either perpetual fury or continuous melancholy), her mind was as sharp as ever, and right now she knew that mouthing off to Lord Beckett would win her no ground with anyone.  Beckett would enjoy chastising her, Mercer would enjoy seeing her brought low, and Sao Feng would think her a weak woman, and she would lose the nascent respect he was building for her.  That would be unacceptable.

Sao Feng, she knew, could be a very key player in this little game of theirs—a player she did not want Beckett to direct.  And this Pirate Lord was just that: a pirate.  If she could get him to change allegiances, or at least make him open to the possibility of doing so... after all, he had turned coats once already; what was once more?  But in order to do that, she needed to keep her temper, and impress him with her strength.  Sao Feng was a man of many facets; the culture he came from wanted their women silent, meek, and nearly crippled with their submission.  But Sao Feng the person preferred rather more zest and fire in his women.  She had to walk the line between a facsimile of feminine humility and her own strength of character if she wanted him on her side.  And he was nearly halfway there already—he had a deep reverence for the supernatural.  With Beckett's antipathy for the same and something else—an instinct that danced at the fringes of her awareness and refused to be forced into clarity—she foresaw that the alliance between the East India Trading Company and the Pirate Lord of Singapore would be very, very short-lived.

All this flickered through her mind in less than five seconds.

Stella took a deep breath and smoothed her dress over her pregnant belly.  "If you don't want me 'keeping on' thusly, never make such insinuations against my honour again," she replied, her voice as hard as nails.  "Were my husband here, he would call you out.  And rightly so."  She moved over to the table, aware that everyone was still watching her intently.  "However, if your tea set is so very important to you..."

She put her hand over the shattered porcelain, sketched a glyph in the air, and murmured the words of the spell—one of great-grandmother Isabella's, so the words themselves were just nonsense syllables—and the cup flew back together under her hand. It was a frivolous spell, and one among many in a category she didn't like using too often, because wielding her power like this was usually quite incompatible with the kind innate abilities she possessed; it was like trying to force a waterfall into a bottle.  Focussed spells like that made her dizzy and queasy.  She was only doing it to make a tangible, powerful demonstration of her capabilities for Sao Feng and his men.

Cup repaired—and Sao Feng now gazing at her as if she was studded with diamonds—Stella sank into a chair, head spinning, knees knocking, and stomach rolling.  No, she did not like using her powers thusly.  She smirked at Beckett, who was staring at her with pure loathing, and gestured to the newly-reconstructed china cup.  "Your teacup, sir."

She was going to pay for this later—she could see the promise of retribution in Beckett's icy blue eyes, since she knew he didn't like to see such painfully visible reminders of what she had and he didn't—but right now, feeling like she'd gotten one-up on him, she could barely bring herself to care.

"I assume there was a reason you sent for me?" she inquired, refusing to cringe away from the grim promise in Beckett's face.

"Yes," Lord Beckett replied, sounding even colder than he usually did.  "This is Sao Feng, the Pirate Lord of Singapore, and one of our newest agents." Sao Feng bowed to her, and Stella gave him a dignified nod in return.  "He has agreed to deliver the _Black Pearl_ and its inhabitants to us when the ship returns to Caribbean waters.  I summoned you to give us a better idea of when that will be, and to inform you that more wind strings will be needed."

"I see," said Stella, understanding now why she had been compelled to bring her rune stones with her when she left the cabin.  "Well, have you a sheet of parchment or vellum or something?"

A sheet of parchment was provided, and Stella used Beckett's quill to inscribe the required symbols onto it, since she'd left her usual mat behind in Port Royal.  She set it down on the table, after making Mercer clear the tea service from it, and took the velvet bag out of her pocket.  Once again, the grey stones were set at the four corners, which she shifted into alignment with the cardinal points of the compass.  Then she tipped the rest of her stones into her hand.  She rubbed one of the runes carved into the dark surface as she glanced at Beckett, trying to ignore the weight and the burn of Sao Feng's relentless scrutiny.  "What is the question you wished asked?"

"When and where will the _Black Pearl_ re-emerge from Davy Jones' Locker?" Beckett replied curtly.

Stella nodded, and cupped her hands, cradling the stones gently between her palms.  She lifted them to her lips, breathing a soft entreaty to the spirits over the stones.  Then she closed her eyes, focussed, and cast the stones down onto the paper.  They scattered with a clatter, and once they stopped she opened her eyes and looked down on the casting.

"Time is elastic near the Farthest Gate," Stella remarked dreamily, her eyes looking beyond the pattern of the stones on the paper.  "They come now, and come later... over the edge, over again.  Sunrise sets, flash of green," she went on, not entirely in control of what words passed her lips.  Behind her, she heard Sao Feng breathe in sharply.  Her hands moved to the stones, measuring the distances between them, and she did some calculations in her head.  " _The Black Pearl_ will return from the land of the dead within twenty-one days."

"Where?" Beckett demanded.

Stella collected her stones and rose, waddling over to Beckett's desk and the map which rested thereon.  She cleared the little toy ships from the map, set down the cardinal stones to frame the Caribbean, and placed the little ship that represented the _Endeavour_ in their current position.  As she did this, Beckett, Mercer, and Sao Feng came over to watch her work.  Under their watchful eyes, she breathed over her stones and cast again.

"There," she concluded, laying her index finger on a very random patch of sea, which was not near to any major archipelagos.  "Or at least, thereabouts."

Sao Feng leaned over her to better see where she pointed, and Stella fought the urge to draw away.  His zeal was disconcerting this close, and at this distance (or lack thereof) the stench of unwashed pirate was nearly nauseating.

"Can you find the meeting place of the Brethren Court?" Beckett asked from across the desk.

"Do you have any further information with which I can narrow the parameters?" Stella inquired snidely, feeling Sao Feng tense at her back.  _Yes, Pirate Lord_ , she thought, _Beckett will betray and discard you the minute you are no longer useful.  You know the danger now, Sao Feng.  I have told them where to find the Black Pearl, and when. If I can find the Brethren Court as well, you and your men will be dead and your ship scuttled before you can make it off the_ Endeavour _, because you will have no further value. Do not trust Lord Beckett._

Beckett glanced at Sao Feng and raised an eyebrow.  "What can you tell us, Sao Feng?"

"Only that I will not be revealing the location at this moment," Sao Feng replied, moving away from Stella and towards his men.  He smiled, revealing stained teeth.  "No disrespect or... what is the word... betrayal, meant, you understand.  It's just good business."

Beckett returned the smile tightly.  It was clear that he was not pleased with having his own motto used thusly against him.  Stella cringed inwardly on Sao Feng's behalf.  Beckett would not let that go unpunished.  If it was in his power, he would make the Chinese captain suffer for that the minute he was able.

"It's unlikely I would've been able to locate it, anyway," Stella offered quietly, breaking the tense silence.  "The Brethren Court likely has protections laid down which prevent just this sort of magic."  Sao Feng and Lord Beckett turned in unison to stare at her, the former with amused admiration and the latter with contemptuous exasperation.  She remained still and collected under their scrutiny, her hands folded demurely across her pregnant belly.

Lord Beckett broke the impasse first, moving around to his desk.  Stella quickly collected her rune stones and put them back into their velvet pouch, moving back towards the tea table.  She did not want to be near the man at all—not now that he'd been shown up by her and stymied by Sao Feng.  He was going to be in a very bad temper, and would likely spread his unhappiness around with a liberal hand.

"Very well," Beckett was saying.  "We will simply have to wait until we retrieve the _Black Pearl_ to collect further information on the Brethren Court.  Sao Feng, make for the coordinates provided and wait for the Pearl.  We will be along within the fortnight." Sao Feng bowed slightly.  "Stella will provide you with wind strings before you leave."  Stella nodded in agreement when Sao Feng's eyes turned her way.  Beckett tossed her a ball of string from his desk, which she deftly caught, and she moved as quickly as she could to the doors of the stateroom.  But Beckett's voice halted her before she could leave. "Where are you going, Stella?"  His voice was as hard as diamond, and just as cold.

"It's easier for me to make the strings when I'm outdoors, Lord Beckett," Stella replied demurely, clenching her fingers around the string to stop her shivers.

Lord Beckett narrowed his eyes, and his malice was like icy fingers on the back of her neck.  "Stay behind a moment.  Sao Feng, you are dismissed, but remain aboard until Stella has a chance to deliver the strings."

Sao Feng didn't like Beckett's high-handedness any better than James did.  He narrowed his black eyes and stared hard at the diminutive aristocrat, but Beckett ignored him, focussed solely on her, and eventually Sao Feng got the hint and left, with only a backwards glance at the pregnant woman standing statue-still near the doors he left through.

Stella met his eyes as he glanced back, aware that hers were likely wide and afraid with a silent plea visible to any who saw.  _Save me_ , she begged silently, aware that such a request was futile.  Even if Sao Feng was of a mind to help her, what could he do against Beckett?

Mercer left last, closing the doors behind him and giving Stella a cruel, anticipatory little smile.  It made something inside her quake.  But she remained motionless, clutching her ball of string with trembling hands, as Beckett came up beside her.  She kept her eyes on the doors, even as she felt his smooth, chilly hand circle her wrist.  _Don't move, and maybe he'll leave you alone_ , she thought desperately, afraid in a terrible, simple way she hadn't been since childhood.  _Don't fight, and maybe he won't hurt you.  Don't move, don't fight, don'tmovedon'tfightdon'tmovedon'tfight..._

She cried out in pain as Beckett's grip on her wrist tightened painfully and he twisted it viciously, bringing it behind her back and forcing her to hunch forward in an effort to take the pressure off her limb.  "What are you—" she began frantically, trying to cradle her belly, but her words were cut off as Beckett twisted her arm even further, making her scream and fall to her knees, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes.

"Stella, Stella, Stella," Beckett murmured in her ear, keeping his painful grip on her wrist, so tight that she knew there would be bruises on her skin within hours.  "You arrogant little harlot.  You know I do not approve of such... displays."

"I am not here to please you," she hissed, trying not to whimper at the pain in her arm.  "And I cannot help being what I am."

"No, but you could have the good sense not to flaunt it," was Beckett's cold riposte.  "But you... ah, Stella, you still don't realise that I am above you," he crooned into her ear, digging his blunt fingernails into her skin.  "I am your better, witch.  You live and die at my command.  You are mine, until I decide otherwise, as is your husband, your child, your cousin, your friends... your life is mine, Stella, and I will not have you defying me."

"I didn't defy you!" she cried as he twisted harder and forced her practically face-first onto the floor.  "Everything you asked, I have done!"

"Still so proud," he sighed.  "Stella, you have no pride save that which I give you.  You are no better than I say you are.  If I say you are a concubine, then you curtsey as best you can and agree.  Especially in front of my subordinates.  I will have no more of these temper-tantrums, no matter whether you can or cannot erase the signs of them."

Despite the pain in her arm, she refused. "You cannot make me," she ground out.  "I am no whore and I will not let you name me one!"

At that, Beckett hauled her upright and spun her around to face him.  He backhanded her viciously, cutting her lip with the ring on his finger, and making her stagger and fall the floor.  She fell, her arms trying to cradle her belly, landing hard.  Her face and her left arm were throbbing with pain, and she simply curled protectively around her unborn child and remained prostrate on the rug, breathing in great, gasping sobs.

She saw Beckett's shiny black boots come over and pause before her face. Craning her neck, she saw the man himself staring down at her with a lazy smile.  "I will make you, Stella," he said calmly, bending down to look her in the eye.  "Sooner or later, I will make you.  I can take everything from you, Stella, with a mere gesture."  And he laid a hand on her belly, patting it significantly.

A wave of fear stronger than she had ever known rushed through her body.  "No, please don't!" she begged.  And yes, she'd been lowered to begging.  But this was for her daughter, her child, and there was not a thing she wouldn't do for her... including beg Beckett for her life.

Beckett smiled, and rubbed her stomach once more before moving his hand away.  "There, see?  You understand.  All you have, you have at my sufferance.  I give, and I can take away.  I can break you.  You will never escape me, and I will have all the time in the world to bring you to heel."

Apparently her anger showed in her face, since Beckett knelt down and took up her other wrist in one hand and her chin in the other.  He squeezed her wrist once more, hard enough that she would apparently be bruised on both arms, and forced her to look at him.  "I see what you're thinking, Stella.  'I'm not your dog.'  That's where you're wrong.  You are my dog, and I will make you obey.  Perhaps not today, but soon enough."

Gritting her teeth against the pain, Stella managed to gasp, "James will—"

"Do nothing," Beckett interrupted.  "Your husband isn't here, Stella."  He punctuated this statement with a harsh twist of her previously unharmed wrist, which made her whimper.

"Why are you doing this?" she whispered.

"Because, my dear, I can," he replied calmly.  He raised her pale arm and raked his nails down the length of her forearm, making her hiss with pain and raising a series of four red welts.  Then he dropped the limb and stood, moving back towards his desk.  "Now go.  Attend to your duties and remember your place," he ordered, tidying his desk.

Stella, breathing heavily, picked up the ball of string and hoisted herself to her feet with the liberal use of the chairs nearby and her animate hair.  Her arms were throbbing with pain, as was the right side of her face, and she wondered distantly how she appeared at the moment.  Did she look as frightened and hurt as she was, or had she managed to hide it?

She stumbled through the doors, clutching her string, and glared at the two guards who were stations outside them.  They had to have heard her cries, and yet they did nothing.  Cowards.  One of the guards flushed at her glare and dropped his eyes; the other, however, stared at the wall as though he did not see her.  She stormed off down the corridor, making for the deck, realising only as she burst out into the sunlight that she'd left her hat and her parasol behind.  But she wasn't going back for them—at least, not alone, and perhaps not at all.  She didn't want to be near Beckett ever again.

Still feeling discombobulated and faint with remembered pain and fear, she moved to the port side, where the _Empress_ was moored.  She had wanted to see the ship, and she might as well make the wind-strings in view of it, satisfying both Beckett's orders and her own inclinations.  But as she settled at the rail, leaning up against a cannon, she noticed that her hands were still shaking.  Her wrists and forearms were also looking reddened, and there were tiny spots of blood rising from where Beckett had scratched her.  Her face was still throbbing, and she could feel something crusty at the corner of her mouth and on her chin that was probably dried blood.

_Good Lord, what do I look like?_ she wondered, cringing inwardly.  She hadn't thought about anything but getting away when she'd left, but now she was realising that she was looking battered and beaten on the deck of the _Endeavour_ in full view of everyone... including a number of men who might inform James upon their next rendezvous.

_He mustn't know_ , she resolved, feeling her stomach give a lurch.  _He'll call Beckett out for this, if he knows, and he mustn't.  Not yet.  It'll only get him killed, and then I truly will be entirely at Beckett's mercy._   She shivered involuntarily at the thought, despite the bright sunlight beating down on her head.

She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths, trying desperately to calm herself.  She was so unhappy right now—she thought she had escaped this sort of cruelty when she left Davy Jones' dubious care, but now it seemed she had simply passed into another man's spiteful hands.  Everything had changed, and nothing had changed.

Suddenly, Stella wished for Bill—not Bill as he was at the end, clingy and desperate and fancying himself in love with her, but Bill as he had been at the beginning, when he was kind and almost fatherly, tending to her with compassion and gentle hands after another disconcerting encounter with Davy Jones.  He wouldn't fly off the handle the way James would were he here to see her thusly; he would merely hand her a rag to clean the blood from her face and stroke her hair or her back, saying nothing and demanding nothing as she composed herself.

She... well, she didn't exactly miss those days, but she missed the way Bill had been with her then, offering her nothing but uncomplicated friendship.  She wished his emotions hadn't changed.  Then she winced as she realising that James was likely thinking the same thing about her.  She had, after all, made their marriage awkward by falling in love with him.   And now she felt awful about wishing Bill could change his heart, because God knew James wished she could change hers.

_I wish I did not have this forced understanding_ , she thought bitterly, and then scolded herself viciously.  _No.  You have been shown what you are, how your husband feels and you have seen through a mirror darkly; now  look.  Do not turn away and forget._

She sighed gloomily, clenching her hands (finally steady) around the ball of string, and was suddenly aware that there was someone standing at her left shoulder.  She didn't need to look to know who it was.  "Captain Sao Feng," she said, hating the waver in her voice that she couldn't quite suppress.  Beckett had thoroughly shattered her nerves.  "I shall have your wind-strings done forthwith."

"There is no hurry," the captain replied in his strangely accented voice.  "Tell me of these 'wind-strings' which Lord Beckett thinks so important."

"It's a little trick I have," she explained, feeling her voice grow stronger as she returned to matters with which she was entirely confident.  "I put a strong breeze, coming from one of the cardinal directions, into a bit of string and secure it with a knot," she said, extending a length of string.  "When a captain needs a westerly wind, or a northerly, or what have you, he needs only to untie the knot and release the breeze contained therein.  I'm told it's quite useful."

"I agree," Sao Feng said.  There was a pause, and she felt his eyes on her.  "I heard tell, once, of a sorceress from the Caribbean, who would turn the winds for sailors," he announced eventually.

"It was likely I they spoke of," Stella replied, answering his unspoken question, glancing up at him and smiling a little.  However, the smile caused the cut on her lip to split open with a sharp sting of pain, and she felt the wet trickle of blood down her chin.  Her face fell.  "Your pardon, sir—"

But Sao Feng surprised her, stepping around to face her and pulling a handkerchief from his sleeve.  It was a rich crimson and scented with sandalwood and a scent she vaguely recognised from cargos brought from Southeast Asia, but which she could not name—something rich and spicy.  He used it to gently dab at the trickle of blood on her lip, and his consideration brought tears to Stella's dark eyes.  It was not motivated by disinterested benevolence, of course—Sao Feng did want something from her—but after Beckett's brutality she was of a mind to take any kindness she could get from anyone who would offer.

"That you should be treated so," Sao Feng murmured, brushing a frighteningly long, dirty fingernail across her reddened face with rather shocking softness and quiet reverence.  Then his roughened hand dropped and ran just as gently over her injured wrist.

It wasn't a seductive touch—Sao Feng didn't desire her in the way a man wanted a woman.  After all, she was very, very large with another man's child and had never been particularly lovely to begin with.  No, if there was anything this pirate desired about her it was her powers.  He wanted the witch, not the woman.

Stella felt a stab of pain inside.  Was she nothing more than her magic?  Was she truly defined by her supernatural abilities?  Beckett hated and envied her for them, Sao Feng revered and desired her for them, and the majority of men feared her for them.  _Only James has ever looked at me as myself_ , she realised in a flash of clarity.  _Only James sees me as the woman, and not the witch._ Everyone else made her feel like an object, defined only by her talents.  James made her feel like a person. _And that is why I love him so._

"Lord Beckett hates the supernatural," Stella remarked quietly.  "As I am the closest avatar thereof, I receive the brunt of his anger.  He did not like my demonstration earlier today."  Before Sao Feng could say anything else, she changed the subject and asked, "Have you a sharp edge I might borrow for a moment?  I'm afraid I left my workbag in my cabin below."

Sao Feng unsheathed the sword hanging at his hip and offered her the blade like a knight errant.  Stella smiled at him—carefully, so as not to make her lip bleed again—and used the blade to slice several lengths of string.  The pirate captain watched her avidly as she summoned north winds, spun them around her like thread on a spindle, and channelled them into the strings, which she then secured with a neat running knot.  By the time she was working on the west winds, she had mostly settled down, and began asking Sao Feng about his ship, about Singapore, about the symbols on his clothing and on the side of the _Empress_ —or rather, _huánghòu_ , as it was in his language.

Captain Groves was also hovering nearby with several sailors, keeping a discreet eye on them, as though he expected Sao Feng to seize her and carry her off on the _Empress_ the minute his back was turned.  Which, Stella supposed, was not entirely outside the realm of possibility.  Given the covetous way Sao Feng was looking at her and the number of times she had nearly been kidnapped during her early years on Tortuga, she supposed he would abduct her in an instant if he thought he could get away with it.  He was a pirate, after all, and most of his conversation emphasized how rich he was, how interesting Singapore was, how pleasant life was as one of his concubines and everything he could offer to one of the same... he was practically screaming 'look what I can give you if you only come away with me'.  Between that and the Chinese poetry he was quoting at her, Stella wondered if she hadn't stumbled into some kind of lady's novel.  Which wasn't to say she wasn't tempted by the offer.  After today, she was almost willing to go back to the brig of the _Dutchman_ rather than stay on the _Endeavour_ with Beckett.

Apparently her temptation was rather obvious.  As she finished knotting the last south winds into the strings, Sao Feng sidled up quite close to her.  Captain Groves stiffened, and was on the brink of coming over to separate them when Stella caught his eyes and shook her head infinitesimally, bidding him to stay still.  Groves didn't look happy about it, but subsided.

"I am a married woman, Captain," Stella remarked lowly as Sao Feng moved into her personal space.

"And yet your husband leaves you in the hands of men who treat you badly," the pirate replied, glancing down at her wrists, which were beginning to turn purple with bruises.  "I would not dare to treat you such," he murmured.

"Nor would most, but Lord Beckett despises me and holds the life of my husband as surety for my good behaviour," Stella explained, tying a bit of string around the south wind strings and handing them to the man who hovered at her shoulder.  "And should you carry me off, as I suspect you're thinking of doing, Beckett would hunt you down, see you and your crew massacred, and your ship sunk."  She lifted her chin and met Sao Feng's dark eyes.  "Have a care.  He is very jealous of my talents and my time."

"Lord Beckett should have a care.  _Dà shuĭchōng le lóngwángmiào_ ," said Sao Feng contemplatively.  At Stella's inquisitive expression, he translated, "The Dragon King's temple is flooded."

A moment of thought and scrutiny led to understanding. "You can be harmed by things you control," Stella surmised thoughtfully.  "Yes, I suppose that is very true."  Had not she been nearly killed by the hurricanes she shifted?  And by the same reasoning, one day she might flood Beckett's temple, so to speak—destroy he who sought to control her.  She would like that very much.  "Thank you, Captain," she said, staring up at Sao Feng's face.

"Thank you, _wūpó fūren_ ," Sao Feng replied.  He bowed to her, low and respectful, before turning and returning to his ship.

Stella remained where she was, staring thoughtfully out at the _Empress_.  So that was Sao Feng.  An interesting man, to be sure.  Not a good man, but an interesting one who treated her well.  And wasn't it a sad day when she got better behaviour from a heathen Chinese pirate than from a mannered English aristocrat?

Groves was at her side the minute the _Empress_ weighed anchor and sailed away.  "Did he harm you?" he demanded lowly.

"Sao Feng?" Stella asked, glancing at him.  "No.  He wouldn't dare lay a hand on me in front of all these witnesses.  I'm not entirely sure he'd dare to lay a hand on me at all."

"Then who...?" he asked, trailing off into silence as he gestured to her face and to her arms.  She had no idea what her face looked like at the moment, but if it looked anything like her arms then Groves was right to be concerned.

Stella just gave him a flat, hopeless stare and returned his question with a question: "Who else would dare?"

It took a mere moment for Groves to comprehend her meaning, and the minute understanding dawned, so did fury.  "That son of a whore!" he swore  "How dare he—well, James will hear about—"

"No!" Stella hissed, reaching out to grab his arm before he could storm off, whether to confront Beckett or write to James.  "He mustn't know!"

"Mrs. Norrington, it's fairly obvious," Groves replied, exasperated.

"Then I'll... I'll... oh, I don't know what I'll do, but James mustn't know," she insisted.  "He'll call Beckett out in an instant."

"And rightly so."

"Yes, but Beckett has absolutely no honour—he won't bother to actually duel; he'll just have Mercer murder him in the middle of the night and I can't be privy to that, I cannot.  I can endure, I really can, but please don't make me a widow over this," Stella pleaded.

"I cannot sit back and pretend I didn't see," Groves said seriously.  "James would never forgive me if I saw you in pain and did nothing to help you."

"There's nothing you can do," Stella returned hopelessly.  "Other than ensure that I have few opportunities to be alone with him.  But if he commands my presence, for whatever reason, I must go.  He has control over all our lives, and defiance is death.  You know this to be true."

Groves looked at her, then out over the ocean to where the _Empress_ was vanishing into the distance, and then back at her.  "We could..." he began slowly.

"No, we couldn't," Stella quashed immediately.  "There's not enough of us."  She shivered.  "Were we to try now, we wouldn't like the consequences."

"Blast!" Groves swore.  "Am I to sit back and let him harm you?  Is there nothing that can be done?"

Stella smiled sadly at him.  "Yes.  And no."

* * *

 

Introspection was something that had never come easily to James Norrington, nor was it something that had ever been particularly necessary.  He was an officer of His Majesty's navy, sworn to weed out piracy and lawlessness in any form.  He was a good man, and didn't require any soul searching—not that he'd had time for any, what with all his duties.

That fallacy had been kicked to pieces within days of meeting Jack Sparrow.  He had suddenly been forced to consider whether or not living by the book was really the right way, whether or not piracy could or couldn't be justified under certain circumstances, what kind of world he was really living in, where skeletons could walk and fight under the moonlight, and whether or not he loved Elizabeth Swann enough to let her go and find happiness in another man's arms.

During his desperate chase he'd wondered about why he'd done what he'd done—letting Jack Sparrow go free—and why he hadn't lied to the Admiralty and the Crown and avoided this problem, what would become of him if he couldn't catch the _Black Pearl_ , and what the hell had he been thinking, letting Jack Sparrow go free?  He hadn't thought much about anything else, consumed as he was with catching Sparrow and redeeming himself.  There was no time for naval-gazing.

And then he'd fallen, lost the _Dauntless_ and his rank and, it felt, his honour as well, and he didn't  want to search his own soul, didn't want to look at or think about what he'd become.  He'd blunted his pain and any impulse for introspection with copious amounts of drink and a burning desire to kill Jack Sparrow, whom he'd blamed for everything, apparently to avoid admitting that he blamed himself.  He'd only thought deeply about himself insofar as musing about how he could use Sparrow to get back to his former life.  He'd told himself that if he could return to the way things were, become an officer and a gentleman again, everything would sort itself out, and he'd be a good man again.

And now, with everything he'd lost restored to him—his rank, his honour, his position in society—he was beginning to feel like a monster.  Everything had not, in fact, sorted itself out.  The certainty of his earlier life escaped him totally.  Part of that might have been his surroundings—it was difficult to be certain of anything in this dark little bunk on the _Flying Dutchman_ , separate from everything familiar and surrounded by hostility, but James didn't think it was the sole reason. There was something inside him that had changed.

He sat on the bunk and removed his wig, holding it in his hands and staring at the white headpiece as he contemplated.  Though the goals he was working towards were virtuous and as untainted as this wig, the methods being used and the man leading the crusade were anything but.  And though he was trying to hold to himself and his newly-regained honour, trying to keep himself apart from Beckett's questionable deeds while working to bring down the same, and trying to keep his wife safe and his life intact, he had a creeping feeling that he wasn't succeeding.

_When this is over_ , Stella had said, _and we are free, what sort of monsters will we be_?

James didn't know.  He would've liked to assure her that they weren't monsters and would never be, that if they kept to the law and did as they asked they would remain pure and untouched by Beckett's conduct.  But he was honest with himself; he had always been honest with himself.  Beckett's orders were sending him to places he did not wish to go, and it was time to step back and take a good look at the kind of man he was and was becoming, and whether or not he could live with it.

He remembered Stella's power of seeing into souls, remembered her telling him that his was pure and shining, even as he wallowed in the muck of Tortuga, remembered the words she flung at him during their first real argument: " _One day you will understand, Mr. Norrington, what it is to find the line you know you must not cross._ "  He hadn't quite found that line, yet, but he was aware that he was drawing closer and closer to it, and wondered what would happen when he found it.  Would he step back, no matter what the consequences to himself or his small family?  Or would his desire to keep them safe drive him across?  And what would Stella see in him after?  Would she be able to see the stains on his soul, and flinch away from looking at him?

All he wanted—all he had ever wanted—was to be a good man.  When and why had that become so difficult?

He felt that he was finally understanding what Will Turner and Elizabeth Swann had meant when they spoke of how it was possible to be both a pirate and a good man.  He didn't agree that Jack Sparrow was the embodiment of this conundrum, but he certainly understood better the contradiction therein.  Lord Beckett was an excellent example of the reverse.  The man was a law-abiding noble leading a fight against piracy, but was at the same time the most immoral, unscrupulous man James had ever met—and he'd spent almost a year of his life among the scum of the Caribbean on Tortuga.  It seemed that, contrary to his previous beliefs, lawfulness and uprightness did not a good man make.

Which left him... where?

James sighed, and set his wig on the table before pulling off his boots.  There were no answers; just an increasing list of questions.  This must be why he didn't introspect very often.  It did nothing but tangle him up in knots.

Otherwise, things were going well.  They'd captured and delivered hundreds of men to the Armada, and Beckett had agreed to rotate the men stationed on the _Dutchman_.  They'd done so twice more, and he was now, three weeks later, commanding the same men who had been here in the beginning.  Davy Jones was behaving himself, the weather had been pleasant, and he still hadn't set foot in the brig.  Though he wasn't sure if his avoidance was to be commended or condemned.

He sighed again, and raked his hands through his hair, which he kept short now, in deference to the wig he was always wearing.  Time to be honest with himself.

No, he didn't ever go to the brig.  He didn't like it down there—it made something inside him ache terribly when he thought of poor Stella trapped down there for months.  And the thought of seeing Bill Turner there, and thinking of all the time he spent with Stella and the way he'd come to love her and the sheer amount of liberties he'd taken... well, that made him jolly uncomfortable as well.  He didn't like to think of his wife in the arms of another man, even if that other man was covered in coral.  And he did not like to see the fear and the despair in the eyes of the captured men.

Unfortunately, it seemed like his deep thinking was changing the way he looked at the pirates.  While he had told Stella to dismiss the suffering of the captives, that they were pirates and unworthy of her compassion, he wasn't sure if he believed it any longer himself.  When they cried and prayed for deliverance from Davy Jones and stared at him with terrified eyes, they ceased to be pirates and became men, and it was thus harder for him to sentence them to torment and death on the Armada's ships.  It made him feel a bit like a monster.  He had sentenced men to death before, of course, but that had been a swift hanging.  It was not a slow suffering in chains, worked to death in the service of a corrupt aristocrat.  It was a death as dictated by the law, not by Lord Beckett.  That was the difference.

Indeed, James realised with a flash of insight, that was the difference.  Before, he had been an officer of the law, serving the king's justice.  Now, he was serving Lord Beckett, who was a man he neither liked nor respected.  The law was nothing but a tool to be used, abused, and discarded at will insofar as Beckett cared.

So apparently that was one of the reasons he felt tarnished and dirty.  But it wasn't that line he couldn't cross without losing his sense of self—at least, he didn't think it was.  And now he was getting very uneasy about that concept.  Where the devil was his line?  How was he supposed to know not to cross it if he didn't know where it was?

God in heaven, he wished he could talk to someone—and by someone, he admitted, he probably meant Stella.  She could see so much when she looked at a person; perhaps she could tell him where that line was.  But what if he'd already crossed it?  Or worse, what if he had no line?  What would she see when she looked at him, if he'd lost his core of goodness?  _If_ , he scoffed mentally, feeling tired, _what 'if' was there about it?_   What kind of monster was he becoming?

For a third time, James sighed, and snuffed the candle before he lay back onto his bunk.  Things were never simple, now.  He missed the crystal clarity of earlier days.  When had he lost that?

_Probably shortly after I first met Jack Sparrow_ , he thought darkly.

* * *

 

The next day, the _Flying Dutchman_ stalked and took a Portuguese ship which James suspected was not terribly piratical.  _La Calixta_ likely skated on the line between legal and illegal, smuggling goods and suchlike, but he didn't imagine they were of the same ilk as the _Black Pearl_.  They likely never actively pillaged another ship.  Their piracy was the bloodless kind.

Not that it got them any mercy.

James hadn't previously made distinctions between pirates like this.  Pirates were pirates; they broke the law, and were thus deserving of nothing more than a short drop and a sudden stop.  Those who live by the sword should die by it, after all.  Not that _La Calixta_ and her crew had lived by the sword.  Which he supposed was his problem.

What was he doing?  James had a moment of disconnect as he stood there, near the helm of the _Flying Dutchman_ , as he watched the crew of the same and the marines herd the Portuguese sailors off their sinking barque and into chains on the supernatural galleon.  Were these people even pirates, or was he simply harvesting anyone and everyone on Beckett's orders?  What the devil was he doing?

As the chains clanked loudly as they were secured to the newest "recruits", James was brought out of his incredulous reflection by a familiar step-thump.  It drew to a halt beside him, and he could see the hulking body of Davy Jones out of the side of his left eye.  He stifled an annoyed sigh.   The last thing he wanted to do whilst mired in an existential crisis was talk with Davy Jones.  Jones had a way of finding your deepest insecurity and poking at it mercilessly.  Stella had the same habit, but she'd thankfully stopped doing that to him around the same time they'd married.

He wasn't going to ask what Jones wanted.  That would be giving in.  No, if Jones wanted to talk to him, he'd have to start the conversation.  James could outlast him, anyway.

"More recruits for your armada," Davy Jones eventually remarked, finally breaking the silence between them.

"Yes," James agreed, and then fell silent again.  He doubted Jones had come here to remark on the new prisoners.

There was a very long silence as the men tried to outwait the other.  But once again, it was Jones who took the plunge and spoke first.  "I have no choice in these events. But I am curious... what do you tell yourself?" the captain inquired with a pretence of idleness.  "What reason can you find in your heart to be a pawn?"

"Is that your opinion? You think I am a pawn," James returned mildly.  If this was Jones' tack, he was going to be disappointed.  The Admiral knew full well he was a pawn.  Or rather, a bishop or a rook or something.  He was a bit more important than a mere pawn.  At any rate, this knowledge wouldn't hurt him because he was already quite aware of it.

"I expect Governor Swann and that harridan wife of yours would agree," Jones retorted.

James rolled his eyes and returned his gaze out to the wretches on deck, who were now being herded below to the brig, chains clanking loudly.  He recalled the orders he'd been given regarding these prisoners. _Lock the crew in chains_ , Beckett had said.  _Starve the fight out of them..._ _then put them to work_.  He had passed these orders on more than once, Beckett's callous words coming from his lips as well.  It made a part of him cringe every time he thought about it.  But he still did as commanded.  He still obeyed.

"It is the essential nature of a pawn... to not know he is a pawn," Davy Jones commented, apparently still worrying at the idea.

"Then I can assure you, Captain, that I am not a pawn," was James' dry retort.   "I am well aware of my place on the chessboard."

It was clear Jones wasn't sure what how to take this.  He turned and stared at the Admiral for a moment or two, frowning .  The Admiral didn't acknowledge his scrutiny, and continued to monitor the disposal of the prisoners.

"This doesn't bother you?  Turning free sailors into slaves?" Jones eventually asked, trying a new tactic to get a rise out of the Admiral.

"If it did, would I tell you about it?" James scoffed scornfully.  "But since you are so very curious, Captain Jones... they are pirates.  I made my living eliminating piracy."  Jones could imply from that what he would.  There was no reason for him to share his doubts with this monster; he'd seen what happened when you showed Jones the tender parts of your soul.  Poor Stella still wasn't the same, and probably never would be.

"You will continue in this madness?" Jones demanded.  "I had thought better of you—as did your wife."

That stung.  "I will not question my orders. I violated my duty once. My life has been returned to me, I will not lose it again!  Especially now as I have so much more to lose," James snapped.  "I have a family to protect.  Beckett holds my wife as surety for my good behaviour.  If I disobey, she suffers.  And that, Captain Jones, is something she has done more than enough of already—most of it at your... hands," he finished, with a glance down at Jones' appendages, neither of which were actually 'hands'.  "I will continue this 'madness', as you say, because the alternative is worse."

That said—too much said, he decided—James left and went down to hear the report from his lieutenant.  He wouldn't go down to the brig, though.  He didn't need to feel any worse.

 


	38. Stella Passeris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cutler Beckett attempts revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N: It's time for a fun-filled, action-packed chapter of goodness!  Sorry it took so long, but things went screwy.  I thought I had a job, and then it turned out that I didn't have a job, but then it looked as though I might, but the guy never called, and then the guy did call, but there's nothing concrete... it was this whole big thing.  Honestly, why am I having such a hard time gaining employment?  I'm qualified!  Arrgh._
> 
> _Also!  There is a "spot the influence" wee thing in here.  Stella does/says some stuff which I must admit I pilfered from other places. The first reviewer to name the source(s) gets a handsome cameo in a later scene (and the smugness of knowing you were right)._
> 
> I remember that this chapter was quite fun to write--I'd been looking forward to it for a good long while.

 

Stella was beginning to think she should've allowed Captain Groves to inform James of Beckett's behaviour, and allowed her husband call him out. Or allowed Groves to mutiny with the other members of the Greek Fire. Or even allowed Sao Feng abduct her.  Anything to make Beckett stop hurting her.  Anything to lift the oppressive miasma of fear that hung heavy over her head every single day.

She looked down at her forearms.  Nearly three weeks later and the bruises and welts of that first encounter had long since faded—which was good, because they had been dark and very obvious when she first acquired them, changing to a livid purple within a day of Beckett's assault.  She had gotten many, many askance looks from the men on the ship before she gave up and hid in her cabin, having her passel of midshipmen bring her food.  However, boys would be boys, and Stella was willing to bet those boys gossiped.  The entire ship likely knew what Beckett did to her.  However, they thought it was a one-time thing.

It wasn't.

It didn't matter that the original bruises and scratches had faded within days of their infliction.  Beckett was always ready to give her more.  And he had found a way to do it that would draw no attention.

Something in the man seemed to have relaxed, that day after the meeting with Sao Feng.  And that was not a good thing. Having struck her and harmed her once, with no reprisals and no one to take him to task, Beckett seemed to think himself at liberty to do with her as he willed.  And his will always involved pain.

He'd summon her—not on a schedule, but when the mood took him.  Sometimes he'd leave her alone, asking only about something such as the impending weather, her wind-strings, or her health.  Then he'd dismiss her.  But others... other times he would take the walking stick—that stupid, pretentious, silver-tipped walking stick of his—and press it under her chin, to get her attention.  Then he'd press it to her belly, right in the middle where her unborn daughter's back rested.

That was the worst part, there, no matter what came after.  Stella knew, intellectually, that Beckett wouldn't hurt her child.  She knew that he wanted to use the baby as leverage over her, once she was born.  She knew that he knew that to harm the baby was to remove almost every check on her behaviour.  She wasn't sure if even her love for James would stay her hand if Beckett harmed her child.  She knew it, and Beckett knew it, and Beckett knew she knew.  But that dispassionate knowledge did nothing to calm her when Beckett held that cane to her belly and looked at with such icy loathing.  It terrified her, in a visceral way she'd never before experienced.

Beckett liked to see her so afraid.  She couldn't hide it.  And when he felt she was sufficiently petrified, with her hands shaking and her breathing quick, he'd remove the cane from her belly and use it to hit her.  The location of the strike varied; sometimes he'd hit her arms, her shoulders, her legs, or her back.  He would only hit once, but Beckett hit hard.  She would come away with a massive red weal that would darken to an angry purple bruise by the next day.  And since Beckett never let more than three days pass between "sessions", Stella was absolutely covered in bruises. She looked as bad as she ever had on the _Dutchman_ , when she'd been manhandled so roughly by Jones' crew.  But Beckett was cunning; he only hit her in places her gowns would conceal, so no one noticed.  Except for Stella herself, who was beginning to feel like a walking ache.

She sighed, and looked away from her unblemished forearms—practically the only part of her body aside from her face and her belly that was—and directed her gaze back out across the ocean.  The ocean, still.  What she wouldn't give to see a tree or a flower again.

_What can't be cured must be endured_ , she reminded herself sternly, resolutely turning her mind away from self-pity and melancholy and taking up her book—a volume of Dryden that Captain Groves lent her when she first came aboard, which she had already read three times before.  Her mind wasn't entirely on the words before her, since she kept an ear out for whatever information the wind might bring her.  She was listening, listening for any whisper regarding the _Black Pearl's_ return to the world of the living.  She hoped it came soon—anything that took Beckett's attention away from her was very, very welcome.

Two days later, her wish was granted; she woke early in the morning , got dressed, and heard Jack Sparrow's dulcet tones on the wind.  She thus realised that the _Black Pearl_ had returned to this plane of existence, and hurried to scry for their location, which she then sent young Mr. Parker to give to Beckett.  She hoped that would mean he wouldn't summon her (giving her one more day of peace), since he'd have something else to occupy his time.

Her luck, though, was not that good.  Mr. Parker came back down, an apologetic expression on his cherubic face, and informed her that Beckett would like to see her in the stateroom as soon as was convenient.

Stella went as white as paper and shivered.  Mr. Parker was quickly at her side, and made her a cup of tea to steady her nerves, assuring her that Lord Beckett could wait and he'd take the blame for their lateness if asked.  She smiled and patted his hand, silently resolving, the moment she was back in Port Royal, to craft the strongest blessings she could for Misters Parker, MacDonald, Sewall, and Clark.  She also promised herself that she would sew them new uniforms every year for Christmas, stitching on the strongest protections she could, as well as make them biscuits and pies whenever they were ashore.

Her little posse of midshipmen had become her greatest allies and her strongest support.  Since the four youths were too insignificant for Beckett to bother with, he quite ignored them, which left them free to observe just what the commander of the fleet was doing to the Admiral's wife and draw their own conclusions about the whole thing.  Consequently, the four lads had decided that Beckett was a jolly awful man whom they all despised heartily, and they were highly indignant on Mrs. N's behalf.  Young Mr. Sewall had offered more than once to duel Lord Beckett in her husband's stead before Stella sat them all down and explained why they couldn't say or do anything overt to help her (because Mercer wouldn't hesitate to murder the lot of them if Beckett thought they were being disobedient).  At the end of it, however, the four midshipmen sported tiny blue stars on their collars and formed themselves into a tight coterie around Mrs. Norrington.  Doubtless they thought it was all very dashing and romantic, like the tales of King Arthur, with themselves as brave knights, Beckett as the wicked villain, and poor Mrs. N—that was what they called her, now that she'd been adopted as one of them—as the damsel in distress.  Stella herself knew just how far from romantic this whole mess was, but let the boys have their fun.

After Stella finished her tea—with just a bit of lemon, the way she liked it—Mr. Parker took her arm and helped her gingerly to the stateroom, minding her bruises.  They stopped down the hall, just out of sight of the doors, for a moment.  Stella grasped Mr. Parker's arm tightly, breathing deeply and trying desperately to shore up herself before she went in and let Beckett destroy her again.  Her grip must have been painful, but Parker said nothing—just let her cling to him and tremble.

When she felt strong enough, Stella released the boy's arm and smiled at him in wordless thanks.  She took a deep breath... took another deep breath... took a third deep breath, and then moved towards the doors of Beckett's stateroom.  The guards opened the doors for her, and she waddled inside, already feeling her heart begin to race and her hands start to shake.  Beckett was seated behind his desk and his walking stick was on the other side of the room; however, that meant nothing, other than the fact that he wasn't going to hit her right this instant.

Stella curtsied as best she could and waited silently until Beckett saw fit to acknowledge her. It was nearly three minutes before he looked up from his papers and turned his attention her way.  She had stopped being annoyed by this within days; to her thinking, any time Beckett wasn't looking at her was time he wasn't hurting her, so she mentally encouraged him to ignore her whenever he pleased, even if she was right in front of him.

Part of her wondered when on earth she had become this meek, frightened little milksop who rolled over and allowed this man to abuse her.  Stella tried not to listen to that voice when she was within Beckett's line of sight, for he'd see that spark and do his best to extinguish it.  But sometimes she would look into the mirror in her cabin and wonder just who it was looking back at her, because it certainly wasn't anyone she recognised.

"I understand the _Black Pearl_ has finally resurfaced," Beckett remarked, setting his quill into his inkpot.

"Yes," Stella replied simply.

He turned to look at her, then, and something about his demeanour made her shiver.

Stella understood and read people much in the same way she understood and read the weather.  But her understanding of people and the uncanny way she read them was based entirely on the innate instincts she had for the skies.  She knew when the winds shifted, and what they would bring when they did; she knew of storms, how fierce they would be, and how long they would last; she could feel the potential lightning in the air, and predict when the potential would become actuality; she understood the variances in temperature and the shifts of the winds with the seasons, and what they portended.  The weather was something she just understood, in a way she could never articulate to anyone else, and she used this understanding to interpret people.

Beckett was usually like the sky just before a storm rushed in, with sullen colours, chilly winds, brooding clouds, and always the potential for a sudden lightning strike.  Usually, Stella herself was struck by his proverbial lightning, which, unlike real lightning, she had no control over and no ability to avoid.  Usually.

This was not 'usually'—in fact, it was so utterly new and foreign that Stella was quaking both inwardly and outwardly. She had never before realised that the cold could burn.

She had never left the Caribbean before, and her understanding of cold was something brisk and fleeting, like the winter winds that raised gooseflesh on her arms, or the persistent chill in the dark dampness of the _Flying Dutchman's_ brig that gave her the shivers and left her skin clammy and cool.  Sailors on Tortuga had carried tales of bitterly freezing weather in the far north or far south, but she had never felt anything but the gentle, temperate breezes of her island homes and had no real idea what they were talking about.

Now she did.  Her eyes seemed to sting from the iciness that she could see in Beckett's soul, and her own shivered away from the harsh frost. It was what Stella imagined a blizzard to be like, with freezing winds that scoured the grey, colourless landscape and snow in the place of rain.  And always that new feeling of burning, stinging cold.

Beckett had never before produced this kind of passionate, unbridled hatred, and she was afraid this new "weather" would manifest physically in some new pain.

He spoke, and his voice was no different than it was usually, though Stella still couldn't stop shaking, as though the winter winds were actually blowing through the ship and not through her mind. "Do you know if they were successful in their objective?"

Relief broke over her like the warmth of the summer sunlight.  Thank God, Beckett's disturbingly intense new climate (so to speak) was not in any way directed at her.  No, he was looking forward to having a new unfortunate to torment—someone he despised far, far more passionately than he did her.  So it was with great relief that she nodded and said, "Jack Sparrow has returned from Davy Jones' Locker."

Hearing the name seemed to have a peculiar effect on Beckett; his face was still arranged in his usual impassive mask, but underneath...

Beckett was not fiery in his temperament—his composure and self-control rivalled her own, of old—but his emotions were no less ardent for it.  No, Cutler Beckett was ice, and judging from the blizzard-like passions Stella sensed from him now, he was eagerly awaiting his reunion with the revived Captain Sparrow.

She didn't envy Jack Sparrow the impending meeting.

Still cloaked in that fierce chill, Beckett nodded and returned to his papers.  "Have your minders take you topside and use every means at your disposal to get us to the _Pearl_ as rapidly as possible," he commanded dismissively.

Stella curtsied again and left the stateroom as fast as she could, still shaking, though from relief instead of trepidation.  Beckett was too preoccupied with Sparrow to bother with her at the moment.  Hopefully that state of affairs would continue.  She felt guilty for wishing such misfortune onto Jack Sparrow—God knows she wouldn't want to inflict Beckett onto anyone, especially given the way he was feeling at the moment—but she was fraying.  Anything that gave her a respite from Beckett's cruelty was welcome, even if it came at Sparrow's expense.

_That is profoundly unkind,_ she scolded herself immediately after.  _How uncharitable, Stella Norrington.  Shame on you._

And she was ashamed of herself, she realised suddenly, as Mr. Parker met her outside the stateroom.  The young man was relieved that her meeting with Beckett had been brief and that she didn't seem at all worse for wear.  She sent him back to her cabin for her hat and her parasol, explaining that Beckett had ordered her topside, and as she waited for him to return she stood in the corridor and processed this new feeling.

Shame was not something she had felt in a long time—since before her father died, she reckoned.  It was a feeling she had decided served no purpose, and besides, what had she to be ashamed of?  She had been so secure in her own superiority over everyone.  She might've been a bastard witch, but that was the point: she was a witch.  She was part of a world most could not see, possessing powers that mundane humans could only dream of, thinking and acting on a higher plane and concerned with weightier matters.  She had thought herself above just about everyone, so why did she need to be ashamed of anything?  Her pride and arrogance had only increased after her mother died, and Eleanor's gentler influence vanished—her mother had been one of the only people able to make Stella ashamed of herself.  Until now.

She didn't like this feeling of shame—it made her stomach turn sour and seemed to diminish her own spirit.  _Which_ , a voice that sounded very much like her mother piped up in her head, _is probably the point.  You, my lass, are finally realising that you've had a far too inflated opinion of yourself and a far too mean opinion of everyone else.  Though you may be powerful and well on the way to becoming a legend among the pirates, your life is worth no more or less than anyone else's.  Even Jack Sparrow, whom you would toss to Beckett as a distraction to save yourself.  Understand your own selfishness, child, and feel your due shame.  May it inspire you to improve yourself—especially now that you understand how badly you need improvement._

When Parker returned with Mrs. N's hat and parasol, he found her with her hands clasped over her pregnant belly, staring at the bulkhead before her without seeing it and a distressed expression on her thin face.  "Mrs. N?" he asked, pulling her attention to him.

Mrs. N blinked and glanced at him, as if surprised to see him there beside her.  She must have been deep in thought indeed to have missed his approach.  But she smiled at him and accepted her hat, though she seemed sad. "I thought he didn't... are you well, Mrs. N?" he asked her quietly.

"I have been beholding my natural face in a glass," Mrs. N replied quietly, tying the ribbons of her hat below her pointed chin.  Her words sounded like a quote of some sort—Mrs. N was quite clever and made many such allusions—but Parker didn't recognise it off-hand.  "I fear I am something like an onion—I have been seeing new layers to my character, and I like them not one bit."

"I don't think you're like an onion," Parker replied, trying for gallantry and wit.  "I should think you more like a cake, in regards to layers.  You're not a bad lady, Mrs. N.  We all like you quite a bit," he added earnestly.

That brought a smile to her face, and she patted his arm as he led her out onto the deck.  "You are a fine young man, Mr. Parker."

* * *

 

Lord Cutler Beckett stood by the windows and peered eagerly out across the ocean.  He was very eager to see Jack Sparrow again—it had been many years since they were last in company, and now it was he who had the upper hand, and with enough power to keep it despite Sparrow's damnable luck.

Jack Sparrow.  Even hearing the name still had the power to send a torrent of emotion through his body.

Cutler closed his eyes for a moment and remembered Sparrow as he was when they met.  Of course, he was John Teague, then—a merchant in the employ of the East India Trading Company, Captain of the _Wicked Wench_ , as yet untainted by the stigma of piracy.  But even then he had been charming and very, very magnetic.  Those dark eyes, those strong features, that wicked grin... oh, he had been drawn in so deeply.  Beckett had sought the man's company assiduously, courted his attentions, listened with fascination to his fantastical stories, did everything he could to ensure that Jack and his ship were prosperous and that he had the best assignments he could send in that direction.

And Jack had seemed amenable to friendship—had laughed with him and smiled at him and seemed to take pleasure in his company.  They were much alike; both were tangled in the supernatural part of the world without being supernatural themselves.  Jack had never been entirely explicit about his connections to that side of life, but they seemed to be many—certainly his tales were peppered liberally with mentions of the extraordinary.

Cutler had always envied Jack his ease with the paranormal; mundane inferiority didn't matter to Jack, if he even noticed that he was supposed to be inferior.  Indeed, Jack seemed to pilot his way through the magical with the ease he sailed his ship through the ocean, charming all and sundry and somehow managing to twist everything—even the supernatural—to his own advantage.  Everything came up roses for Jack Teague, somehow; so long as he was with his ship on the ocean, he was happy.  Cutler was both amazed by and jealous of that simple happiness, and had wanted to learn... to share... wanted...

No, he could not—would not—say it, even now.  Not even to himself.

He had been so drawn in, like everyone.  Cutler hadn't expected what came next, when Jack apparently lost his mind, discarded an expensive cargo, and defied the Company's orders.  He had tried to talk to Jack, tried to bring him around and help him salvage what was left of his career, but Jack had been adamant that carrying slaves was morally repugnant to him and remained totally unrepentant for setting them free.  It was after that everything went to hell.

Perhaps Cutler had been too unguarded—no, Beckett thought bitterly, he had definitely been too unguarded.  Jack had seen and understood too much about Cutler's behaviour and his feelings, and his disgust with the same had been plain.  Stung, Cutler had reacted badly, Jack had responded with an even worse reaction, they had argued violently and Cutler had the _Wicked Wench_ torched and Jack's supple, golden flesh branded with the "P" which would mark him as a pirate for the rest of his life.  Raging and bleeding, Jack had been abandoned on shore... and with him, the softest parts of Cutler's character had been likewise left behind.  And he had never expected to see John Teague again—and he supposed he never had.

For a mere year later, it was Jack Sparrow whom he met again.

Beckett sighed, and opened his eyes.  When uninterrupted ocean greeted his gaze, he huffed impatiently but remained otherwise still.  He wanted to see it again—that black ship.

He'd been in Bombay when he'd first heard the rumours of a black ship with black sails, six months or so after he'd broken with Jack.  He had risen through the ranks of the company since that awful day, due in no small part to having sentiment burned out of him as he had burned a "P" onto the arm of his... well.  They said the _Black Pearl_ was the fastest on the seas, and many company ships had been pillaged by the mysterious Captain Sparrow—including, a year after the rumours first reached his ears, the one Cutler Beckett was travelling on to London.

He closed his eyes again, putting his hands out to clench at the shutters and breathed deeply through his clenched teeth.  Beckett remembered all too well the fear that had permeated the ship when the _Black Pearl_ was sighted on the horizon, the boom of the cannons and the smell of powder.  He had been petrified, and remained in the captain's quarters with the other passengers—mostly clerks and counters—hiding away from the pirates.  Then the pirates had taken the ship—he couldn't even recall what its name was anymore—and they had heard footsteps approaching.  He had shrank back against the wall of the cabin, his stomach roiling with fear and his hands shaking.  And then the door flew open...

Beckett would always remember that moment.  Even now, he could see it with perfect clarity. The air was hazy with smoke and the sun was shining through the open doors, and a lithe figure stood silhouetted in the frame, practically glowing.  His hair was loose around his shoulders, pulled back with a red bandana and a leather tricorn, and several trinkets strung into those dark locks caught the light and sparkled.   It was Jack, of course, but Jack as Cutler had never seen him before—he looked utterly unworldly, like some kind of fallen angel.

Jack sauntered over, and it seemed piracy had made his walk even more liquid and loose-hipped.  Beckett recalled the way his heart had pounded the whole time, but upon looking into Jack's dark eyes, now smudged round with smoky shadows, he hadn't been able to see any of the Jack he knew.  There was just this strange new person before him, who looked like Jack but wasn't, really.

"Cutler Beckett," said Jack, flinging an arm around the smaller man and leading him out into the sunlight. "Fancy seeing you again."

"Jack Teague," Cutler stammered, feeling simultaneously relieved and apprehensive—relief that he apparently wasn't going to be slaughtered offhand, but apprehensive because the pirates who were sacking the ship were under the command of someone whom he had branded not long before.

"Actually, it's Sparrow now," Jack corrected him, sliding easily through the throngs of men and goods.  "Captain Jack Sparrow."

Once on deck, Cutler noticed the ship (what was it called?) had come off much worse for wear, and where he realised that the _Black Pearl_ was none other than the same _Wicked Wench_ —albeit much blackened—that he had ordered torched and sunk not a year ago.

"Is that...?" he asked, confused and slightly disconcerted.  "How...?"

"Aye, that's her.  Made a deal and had her raised from the depths," Jack replied dismissively, releasing him and sashaying towards his ship.

Cutler felt strangely bereft without the warm weight of Jack's arm upon his shoulders.  "A deal," he repeated curiously.  "A deal with whom?"

Jack turned to smile at him—but the expression was lacking its previous warmth, and was quite cold.  "Davy Jones.  Strange... creature, that one, but I got me lovely lady back—with no thanks to you, mate," he added, all smiles dropping off his face.  "And now we're off to find the famed treasure of Cortez... after, of course, I had a chat with you."

"Me?" Cutler squeaked, feeling his heart start to gallop.  Had Jack come for him?  Was everything forgiven and were they to be as they once were—or better?

"Had to repay you, after all," Jack said with a shrug.

Cutler wanted to know what he meant by that, but Jack ignored him as he oversaw the stowing of their plunder, waving his arms wildly.  Eventually, the company ship (blast it, what was it called?) had been stripped of everything valuable, and left only with enough provisions to get them to port.  The pirates began filing off, returning to the black ship.

Jack was the last one to leave.  He stood on the gangplank and looked back at Cutler, still standing, as if rooted, to where he'd been left.  "Now, after you branded me and sent me ship to the depths, I was hell-bent on seeking you out and murdering you messily," he began, making Cutler shiver and his fantasies of absolution vanish in a puff of smoke. "However, since then I've taken to the pirate's life, and calmed down a bit, savvy?  So I won't, as I had previously planned, shoot you in the head."

"Thank you," Cutler said faintly.

"But I will shoot you."  And with that, Jack drew his pistol and shot, without even bothering to aim.

Cutler collapsed with a scream, and curled around his wound like a lobster on a fork as an excruciating pain knifed through his body.  He was distantly aware of the other passengers and the sailors hovering around him and trying to get him to explain where and how he was wounded, but all he could see was _Black Pearl_ casting off and sailing away, and Jack Sparrow at her helm.

At least, until he passed out from the pain.

It turned out the ball from Sparrow's pistol had struck his left testicle.  The ship's surgeon was able to extract it, but the prognosis afterwards was very grim.  Cutler spent most of the voyage either feverish or unconscious from the extreme pain, and the whole thing passed in a blur.  He was hardly cognizant of anything until he awoke, finally lucid and without fever, in his mother's London house.

Mrs. Livia Beckett only came to see him after the physician had been by, the afternoon after he awoke. "You will live," she announced, stepping towards the bed where he laid prostrate.  "Though you shall never have children of your own.  It seems the continuance of the line will depend on Martina and Beatrice."

"I believe that was ever your preference, Mother," Cutler said hoarsely.

"True, but your late father, God rest his soul, did so desire a son to carry on the name," Livia noted lazily, without sounding particularly grieved.  "'Tis a good thing he is no longer with us—this would have been a sore blow to him."

"And it is in no way a blow to anyone else," Cutler snapped weakly.

"Oh pish, Cutler," Livia dismissed with an imperious gesture.  "It isn't as though you were doing anything with the organs in question."

"Mother!"

"Don't overexcite yourself," his mother bid him sternly.  "Your sisters and I have not expended all this time and money keeping you alive for you to kill yourself within hours of waking up.  I will leave you now, Cutler.  Perhaps you might take some rest."

Cutler was bedridden for nearly a month.  He did his work from his sickroom, refusing to let this injury impede his upward progress through the ranks of the Company, and getting the gossip from Beatrice, who was his favourite sister (and who was now dead). Apparently Jack Sparrow and his _Black Pearl_ had been capturing and plundering company ships all over the Atlantic and the Caribbean, and there was no shortage of stories regarding Sparrow's exploits.  He had become an almost-fantastical figure—not a real man anymore, but someone more at home in stories.

It was only after he was back at work in the London offices and hearing the steadily more incredible tales of his former friend's exploits that he realised that Jack Sparrow was no longer one of the mundane humans who was touched by the supernatural but forever apart from it.  Sparrow was now part of that world.  Jack had somehow managed to rise above his inferiority and gain entrance to a world that Cutler had thought forever barred to those who weren't born into it.  He had made the supernatural dance to his tune, and had become one of them.

It was for that reason that Beckett truly begun to hate Jack Sparrow.  True, he was furious that Sparrow had shot him in the testicles and rendered him forever impotent, but it was the bitterest, harshest blow of all that Jack Sparrow succeeded where Cutler Beckett failed.  Wounds would heal—to an extent, anyway—but nothing would take away the sting of the knowledge that Jack Sparrow was part of a world that would never accept Cutler Beckett.

And so he turned on that world.  If it would embrace Jack Sparrow and not himself, then it was worth nothing, and he would do all he could to destroy it... and Sparrow.  Oh, he would destroy Sparrow indeed, and make him rue the day he ever left the company, the sphere to which he was born... and himself.

That became his driving goal.  He had no reason now to seek a wife or a family, since he would be unable to satisfy the former or produce the latter, and thus turned his considerable energies towards his career, which prospered accordingly.  He did do a bit of dabbling in the darkest side of magic through an intermediary, which was how he summoned/acquired the questionable services of Mr. Mercer, but he never wavered from his pursuit of his eventual goal: his ascendancy over the paranormal world, which would accept Sparrow but shun Beckett, and his desire for triumph over his erstwhile friend, who had and had once been everything he wanted.

When Lord Beckett opened his eyes again, pulling himself out of memories, he could see that black ship on the horizon.  He felt his breath grow short as the sight took him back to those bygone days, and he shifted uncomfortably as his mangled male parts seemed to ache with the remembrance of the wound.

_Wait,_ he told himself.  _Keep waiting. Get the information you need, move the chess pieces into their position, and then strike.  Do not move too soon.  It is almost time._

Almost time to revenge himself, and achieve that which he had worked so hard for.  Almost time to bring Jack Sparrow low, and make him realise that Cutler Beckett, whom he had once scorned in every possible manner, was reigning supreme.

* * *

 

Stella wished she could send her eyes on the wind the same way she sent her voice.  She'd give just about anything to be able to witness what was going on topside—and she'd give even more to be able to talk to Tia Dalma, whom she knew to be on the _Black Pearl_.

But she'd been sent below.

She had turned the winds in the direction she figured the _Pearl_ to be in, and sent the _Endeavour_ sailing as fast as possible.  Sure enough, within a few hours they came upon an island, off which was moored both the _Black Pearl_ and the _Empress_.  However, the moment the ships were visible, Captain Groves ordered Mr. Clark (who had taken over for Mr. Parker) to escort Mrs. Norrington to her cabin.  Stella understood, of course—with all the hubbub on deck, she would only be in the way, and Groves likely wanted her out of the line of fire should anything untoward occur.

She understood, but that didn't mean she liked it.

Dammit, she wanted to talk to Tia!

Stella huffed an annoyed sigh and wished she had the grimoire at hand.  She knew there were invisibility spells in there—she could certainly use one at the moment.  It was about the only way she could think of getting near the _Pearl_ unnoticed.  There were shape-shifting spells as well, but Stella wouldn't dare use one of those when she was this far gone with child.  And while there were also a preponderance of gulls near enough to the _Endeavour_ that Stella could possibly Borrow one and use it to get near Tia, she wasn't sure what the lingering Kraken would do to that method of communication, seeing as the Kraken was only lingering due to an accident whilst Borrowing.  She could've just send her voice on the wind, but that was too likely to be overheard and thus, given the sensitive subjects she wished to talk to Tia about, nixed that method of communication wholesale.  There was always Astral Projection... but, again, it wasn't something Stella was willing to try when she was pregnant.

In short, all her easiest options had too many questionable risks with no guarantees of success.

"Damn, damn, damn," Stella muttered darkly.  She could not miss this opportunity!

In times of uncertainty, it was natural to seek out those who were older and wiser.  Tia was both older and wiser, and Stella was hard-pressed to think of a time when she had been more uncertain—of herself and of her choices.  Whether or not her friend would have anything useful to tell her was debatable, considering they were both in rather dire straits, but surely talking it over couldn't hurt.  Perhaps a fresh perspective would illuminate a way out of this morass that Stella had overlooked.  But she wouldn't know unless she could get up there and find out.

She closed her eyes and tried to remember everything she'd ever read about invisibility spells.  She'd have to cobble something together quickly that required no outside ingredients.  It likely wouldn't be as elegant as great-grandmother Isabella's, would probably not last very long, and was likely going to exhaust her, but it was her best bet for getting close enough to Tia to have any kind of discourse.

"Well then," she said to herself, reaching up to remove her bell necklace (because while it was one of her prized possessions and was seldom away from her person, it wasn't exactly a piece of jewellery suited to sneaking around), "let's see what you're made of, my girl."

* * *

 

Beckett knew the instant Jack Sparrow entered the room, though his back was to the doors and his gaze fixed firmly out the window on the ships moored next to his own (though he could see a bit of the room behind him reflected in the glass).  Of course, Jack wasn't being particularly stealthy, nor were the marines escorting him in, but even had he been walking lightly and trying to steal in alone, Beckett still would've known.  It seemed a decade was not enough time to wean his body from its instinctive reaction to this man's proximity.

He took a deep breath and began the speech he had prepared earlier, when he realized that today was the day that he would once again lay eyes on Jack Sparrow, and that he needed to get information out of him and yet put him in a position to be killed later.  Much later, when Beckett had no further use for him, and the shine of being superior had worn off. "It's curious," he remarked dispassionately. "Your friends appear to be quite desperate, Jack. Perhaps they no longer believe that a gathering of squabbling pirates is enough to take down the _Flying Dutchman_.  And so despair leads to betrayal.  But you and I are no strangers to betrayal, are we, Jack?"

As he spoke, Beckett was well aware of Jack's swift inspection of the room's contents, and the way he was peering into sundry objects and boxes.  He knew full well what Sparrow was up to, and sighed, throwing out the rest of his rehearsed speech in favour of indulgent annoyance.  He turned to look at the man in the room with him.  And there it was—that swooping feeling in his gut.

But somehow, there it wasn't.  This man was not very much like the Jack from his memories.  This Jack had none of the gentleness of his past self—he was distractingly gregarious and all brittle brightness.  The years had made Jack Sparrow a much harder man, and it showed in his face and his movements, many of which were trying to hide the fact that he was a much harder man, camouflaging his shrewdness with that deliberate daftness.

But that ineffable _something_ was still shining through him, even if much else had change, and Beckett hated him for having it, and wanted it, and wanted him for having it, and hated himself for that wanting...

None of this inner turmoil was visible, of course, or even much acknowledged by Beckett himself, who had used the many years that separated them to harden his heart.  The only indication of the tattered remnants of what was once a grand passion, now turned to equally passionate hatred, was the gentleness of his voice as he said, "It isn't here, Jack."

Jack spun away from his inspection of the table's contents.  "What? What isn't?"  he asked blithely, as though he hadn't been doing anything dodgy at all.  That was always Jack's way.  If caught, deny, deny, deny, and do something outrageous that would make everyone forget he had been doing wrong in the first place.

Beckett was immune—or rather, he was hardened enough to ignore the effects of Jack's presence, even though he might feel them. "The heart of Davy Jones. It's safely aboard the _Dutchman_ , and so unavailable for use as leverage to satisfy your debt to the good Captain," he said dryly.

Jack began to move through the room, seemingly aimless.  "By my reckoning, that account has been settled," he pointed out helpfully.

"By your death? And yet, here you are," Beckett retorted ironically.

By this time, Jack had drawn near to Beckett's newest portrait, and grabbed the silver-tipped walking stick that Beckett wielded both in the painting, and against Stella Norrington when he felt so inclined.  "Close your eyes and pretend it's all a bad dream. That's how I get by," Jack advised him wryly, using the cane to mimic the pose in the portrait.

Beckett would not allow himself to be distracted by anything Jack did.  He kept onto his intended tack, worrying at the issue like a dog with a bone.  "And if Davy Jones were to learn of your survival?" he insinuated pointedly, hinting that he wouldn't be averse to dropping just such a titbit of information, if Jack did not do what he asked.

* * *

 

Given the circumstances she was working under, Stella was justifiably proud of her efforts.  She wasn't invisible—not as such—but people were encouraged not to see her.  It was mostly a mental trick, what she was using now; a kind of fiercely held and projected modesty that made the user unnoticed, rather than unseen.  While it would work on the vast majority of the men on the ship, she would have to steer clear of Beckett and Mercer—they'd notice her instantly.  But so would Tia, which was the point.

She carefully ascended the stairs, and the men she saw moved their eyes past her as though she wasn't there.  Yes, this would do very well.

* * *

 

Jack put down the walking stick and turned to look at him.  The message had been received clearly, and, given the pirate's posture, he was not unwilling to hear options of avoiding such a fate.

In some ways, Beckett mused as he moved to the table whereupon rested his spirits, Jack was extremely predictable.  One could always expect him to act with bald self-interest, choosing the course of action which would best preserve his person.  Within those boundaries, however, anything was possible.

"Perhaps you would consider an alternate arrangement," Beckett suggested leadingly, pouring two small glasses of his best port and offering one to Jack.  He doubted the pirate's affection for all mind-altering beverages had changed much over the years.  Indeed, judging from what he'd heard, that fondness had only increased.  "One that requires absolutely nothing from you but information."

"Regarding the Brethren Court, no doubt?" Jack surmised, accepting the tiny snifter... and then purloining Beckett's as well.  Of course.  Beckett sighed, but allowed it.  What else had he expected, really? Jack threw back the port like the seasoned drinker he was and went on, naming his price.  "In exchange for fair compensation—square my debt with Jones, guarantee my freedom?"

"Of course. It's just good business," Beckett assured him, moving to pour more port.  Greasing the wheels, of course.

Jack mustn't know the extent of his hatred, nor the nature of his plans beyond eliminating the Brethren Court.  Beckett wasn't sure how much Jack would care about his plans to do away with the Brethren or eradicate the supernatural, but he would certainly care about Beckett's plans for himself.  And if Jack did react to the former after discerning it, then he'd likely do something ridiculous which would end in a quick death for him and no information for Beckett and thus everything would be utterly ruined.  The best way he could think of to conceal these things was to ply the captain with enough liquor that he wouldn't notice anything amiss (he had always been blasted insightful at the very, very worst times) or care very much if he did.

Jack picked up the little figure Beckett had of himself—a playful little conceit of his—and raised it to his eyes.  Always the magpie, was Jack, distracted by interesting or shiny objects. "Were I in a divulgatory mood, what then might I divulge?"

Beckett moved closer with the extra port, and the intensity with which he wanted this information was apparent in his voice.  He could not move forward with his enterprise until he had this information, and previous attempts to ferret it out met with absolutely no success.  It was imperative that he find out where the pirates would be holing up so he could go eliminate them, capture Sparrow in a more permanent manner, achieve lasting fame and renown for quashing piracy, become the dominant player in international politics, and continue his war on the supernatural.  And he couldn't do any of these marvellous things unless he knew where the damn pirates were.

Jack didn't look at him at first, focussed on the tiny toy in his slender, be-ringed fingers.  "Everything," he replied softly.  "Where are they meeting?" His voice got quieter and he moved closer, trying to project an air of confidence and secrecy.

The truth, however unconscious of it Cutler Beckett was (and he was very, very unconscious of it), was that he just wanted to get closer to Jack Sparrow.  A decade or more was not enough time to destroy the hold the pirate had on the remnants of his more tender feelings, or render powerless the pull he exerted on what felt like every ligament in Beckett's body.

"Who are the pirate lords? What is the purpose of the nine pieces of eight?" he murmured, coming closer still to Jack and letting his eyes trace the lines of his face, caress the jewels and beads strung in his beard and his hair, gaze lingeringly at the lips below the moustache.  He told himself he was only this close to Jack because he wanted to ensure that no one overheard them.

He was lying to himself.

The look in Jack's dark eyes was eloquent.  It seemed he was well aware of Beckett's lingering attraction, since he took a telling step away and moved towards the other side of the room and the trinkets resting on the tables there.  Beckett was rather glad to see him go; it seemed that, though the softer emotions he once felt for Jack Sparrow had been burned away long ago, his body's treacherous reactions were not so easily controlled.  A bit of distance would do the both of them good.  To that purpose, Beckett retreated behind his desk.

"The Brethren Court meets on Shipwreck Island, in Shipwreck Cove," Jack announced, hands hovering over the many items displayed on the table.

"And its members?" Beckett prompted, when Jack had been silent for too long.

"The Pirate Lords," Jack replied briefly.  "Nine of 'em, each with one of those nine pieces of eight.  Each Lord has one—'s how they're a Lord, what with the Lordship passing with the piece of Eight."

"Do these pieces of eight do anything else?" Beckett pressed.

"Nothing I know of," Jack demurred absently, inspecting himself in a silver-backed mirror.  "Just marks one of the Lords, innit?"

"And who are the Lords thus marked?"

Beckett could see Jack's grin in the mirror, glinting with gold.  "Want to guess?  I bet you can," he offered, with a hint of that old teasing which had seldom failed to make his younger self's knees weak.

"I'm not here to play guessing games with you, Jack," Beckett replied coldly.

"You're no fun at all, mate," Jack pouted, setting the mirror back down on the table. "Of course, I'm a Pirate Lord.  Lord of the Caribbean Sea," he added proudly, preening.  Beckett fought the urge to roll his eyes.  "Barbossa and Sao Feng out there are Lords as well," he went on, waving an absent hand towards the ships visible out the window.  "There's also Chevalle the Frog, Villanueva, Jocard, Mistress Ching—bloody terrifying woman, her—Ammand, and Sumbhajee," he listed, counting the Lords off on his fingers.

Beckett recognised every single name—all of them had massive prices on their heads.  He was now even more resolved to wipe the lot of them out, seeing as they had cost him hundreds of thousands of pounds in merchandise through the years.  "Well-known names," was all he said.  "Three pirate Lords in one place... almost providential, really."

"Ah, but you'll have to let some of us go to find the rest," Jack pointed out cheerily, plucking up a painted Spanish fan which he snapped open with a flick of his wrist.  "You can keep Barbossa," he offered, whirling around as he fanned himself, "the belligerent homunculus and his friend with the wooden eye both, and Turner—especially Turner," he said in a grim tone that indicated that he was likely well aware of Turner's betrayal, and punctuating his displeasure with a flick of his wrist which snapped the fan closed. "The rest go with me aboard the _Pearl_ , and I will lead you to Shipwreck Cove, where I will hand you the pirates and you will not hand me to Jones. Bloody fair deal, don't you think?" he finished loftily, snapping the fan back open and waving it back and forth like the demented lunatic he was.

But there was one party who hadn't been mentioned at all, and Beckett found it a significant party, for more than one reason. "And what becomes of Miss Swann?" he inquired coolly, fiddling idly with one of the pieces of eight.

Though Elizabeth Swann had lost much of her importance upon the death of her father, since she had thus ceased to be useful as leverage against him, she was still a personage of interest.  Turner could be played like a puppet on a string via his love for Miss Swann, and though Elizabeth herself was a fallen woman her family name did still carry much weight in London.  She could be dangerous if left to run about unchecked.  And now she apparently had some kind of significance to Jack.  Did Jack wish to take her as a lover?  Was that why she hadn't been mentioned?

He pretended quite thoroughly that he was not at all jealous.

Shutters went down behind Jack's dark eyes the minute her name was brought up, and he gave Beckett an intent look over the top of the desk, setting his hand—and the fan—down heavily on its surface. "What interest is she to you?" he asked flatly.

Beckett just smiled and looked down.  Judging from that reaction, Jack's interest in Elizabeth Swann was very, very far from romantic.  "Less than she is to you, I should think, and in a much less immediate way," he replied mildly, flicking the piece of eight into the air.  "Her name still holds power in London.  And her father—"

"Is dead," Jack interrupted.  He gave Beckett an arch look.  "Fancy that, eh?"

"Indeed," Beckett agreed flatly, wondering how the devil Jack had known that.  Then again, he supposed, Jack had been dead recently, and who knew what kind of information one was privy to when dead?  Not that he intended to find out any time soon, of course. "As it is, Jack, Miss Swann held a gun on me, and would likely have no compunctions about doing so again," he added, offering a bit of information in the hopes of getting more.  "I do not want to leave her in a position to do so."

"Miss Swann chained me to my ship and left me to the Kraken," Jack retorted.  "I ought to be the one worrying about the bonny wee murderess.  'Course, having offed me once before, she might be done," he mused, almost to himself.  But then he shrugged, not seeing the way Beckett's hand had tightened into a fist around the piece of eight.  "Leave her on the _Pearl_ , may as well.  Keep your enemies closer, savvy?"

Beckett didn't agree.  He could see the merit to having Miss Swann on the _Endeavour_ , and all of said advantages were on his side.  Elizabeth would not enjoy any of her time here.  He was furious with her—no one had the right to mangle, maim, or murder Jack Sparrow but him.  And he wanted to make sure that little Miss Elizabeth accurately understood that.  Vengeance would be sweet... and impossible to obtain if Jack meant to keep his enemies closer.

He changed directions, throwing a red herring in the negotiations which would hopefully get him what he wanted.  The idea of Jack Sparrow and Elizabeth Swann down in the brig was a pleasing one, and one which he rather wanted to see realised.  "Jack! I've just recalled, I have this wonderful compass which points to whatever I want," he noted, rising from his desk and sidling past Jack, moving towards the table which held the item in question.  "So for what do I need you?" he asked rhetorically, turning and displaying the compass in the palm of his hand.

Jack spun to face him. "It points to what you want most," he said, gesturing to the tiny box-shaped navigational instrument resting in the palm of his hand, "and that's not the Brethren Court, is it?"

"Then what is?" Beckett asked flatly, slightly annoyed that Jack was right.

Jack smiled.  "Me," he replied simply, brightly, as if surprised that any other answer had been considered.  However, his face fell immediately after as he added, nervously, "Dead."

"Damn," Beckett muttered, tossing the compass back to its owner.  Jack tossed him the fan in return, and as the pirate was securing his compass to his belt, Beckett took a moment to collect himself. He hated that he was still so transparent to this man's dark eyes.  And he hated that he needed to keep the man alive, and let him go—wait.

He snapped the fan open—although with much less alacrity and grace than Jack—and began mimicking the pirate's previous movements.  "Although, if I kill you, then I can use the compass to find... Shipwreck Cove, was it?... on my own." 

And then he did something he'd been dreaming of doing for more than ten years: he pulled a pistol on Jack Sparrow.  "Cut out the middleman, as it were," he went on, approaching Jack slowly, hand surprisingly steady when he considered just how long he had been wanting to do this.

_How does it feel, Jack?_ he wanted to gloat.  _The tables have turned, haven't they?  Shall I serve you like you served me?_

Judging from the look in Jack's eyes, he wasn't unaware of the situation's parallels.  But he wasn't exactly afraid, either.  And that infuriated him.  It was the same arrogance he saw in the supernatural—that complete confidence that he couldn't do a thing to them because they were better than he was.  And he was seeing this in Jack Sparrow's eyes, and Jack Sparrow had once been just like him.

Beckett wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him and scream _How did you do it?_ How did Jack manage to become part of that world, become one of that blasted, elitist, magical _them_ , which only accepted those like them?  How did he make them accept him as one of their own... and why wouldn't they take Cutler Beckett?

Jack moved away from the barrel of the pistol and began to circle around Beckett, who followed him steadily, keeping the gun trained on his body at all time.  "With me killed, you'd arrive at Shipwreck Cove, find its stronghold nigh impregnable, able to withstand blockade for years," Jack pointed out lowly, stepping even closer to Beckett and his gun, utterly unafraid and intoxicating in his confidence, "and then you'd wish, 'Oh, if only there were someone I had not killed inside to assure that the pirates then come outside...'"

Beckett's heart was pounding, but his aim never wavered.  He had moved far beyond that stripling boy whom Jack had so enthralled.  "And you can accomplish all this, can you?" he asked flatly.

Jack gave him a sultry smile that would've had him on his knees in another life.  "You may kill me, but you may never insult me," he said, opening his arms wide, as if displaying himself to an admiring multitude.  "Who am I?"

Beckett gazed at him, confused and sceptical.  They both knew jolly well who he was.  He opened his mouth, then shut it as a horrible thought occurred to him. What if he wasn't just Jack Sparrow anymore?  What if there was something else? Had he changed even more than was readily apparent?  Was he even human anymore?  Was that how and why he had left behind the mundane human world?  Dammit, what else had Jack gotten up to?

Jack looked disappointed at his hesitation.  "I'm Captain Jack Sparrow!"

Becket was about to roll his eyes and make a snide comment—he had his mouth open and everything—when the wall exploded.  He fell backwards and dropped his pistol, staggering and collapsing against his desk, wide-eyed and heartily confused.  What the devil just happened?

If Jack was likewise confused, he hid it well.  Instead, barely wrong-footed by the explosion at all, he reached out and grabbed Beckett's hand.  He shook it once, heartily, shouted, "Done!" and vanished out the doors of the stateroom before Beckett could even pull himself to his feet—before the smoke of the cannonball coming through the hull—because that was what had just happened—had settled.

Beckett pulled himself upright, heart pounding, staring vacuously off in the direction Jack had left.  Bloody hell, how did that man always manage to turn everything—everything!—around to his own advantage?  It was as though he had the devil's own luck—which, Beckett allowed, wouldn't be outside the realm of possibility, especially given what Mercer was made of.  But there had to be something about Jack to explain what had just happened.

Beckett had been entirely prepared—and in an ideal position—to either shoot or capture the elusive Jack Sparrow.  He had all the cards, all the advantages—hell, he had a gun to the man's head.  Literally.  And then... this.

Yes, this.  Beckett could hear the sound of more cannons firing, and he reached down to grab his gun and raced for the doors.  He had to figure out what the devil was happening.  He hadn't come this far to lose control this close to his ultimate goal!

* * *

 

Though there had been a couple of close calls when sailors nearly knocked into her (and one whom Stella swore could see her), she made it up onto the deck without incident... just in time to see the _Black Pearl_ fire on the Endeavour.

Perhaps she should've stayed below after all.

She reeled backwards to the doors she'd just come through as a cannon ball struck the ship somewhere below her and made the decks shudder under her feet.  She lost the mental control which kept her unnoticed, focussing her mind on keeping out of the chaos that immediately overtook the ship.  Had anyone cared to look, they could've seen her there; however, everyone was busy with something else... such as staying alive.  There was wooden shrapnel firing and pistol shots and shouting and men rushing back and forth... it was quite possibly the second most terrifying moment in her life (the first being the time Davy Jones tried to drown her during her early days on the _Dutchman_ ).  Stella knew she was in real danger of losing her life in an instant, of being struck by something and killed or trampled or knocked overboard or shot with nothing she could do to prevent it.

She really, really should've stayed below.

And then, out into the chaos, came bounding a figure that she really should've expected to see, given how quickly things had gone awry.

"Jack Sparrow!" she cried, reaching out to grab his sleeve.  That man could run between the raindrops; one of the safest places to be was in his orbit.

Besides, if she couldn't talk to Tia—and it seemed that opportunity was lost, given current events—perhaps Jack's corkscrew of a mind would have some insights into her predicament.

"Bell?" Jack said, doing a double-take.  "What are you doing here?"  He started walking away, but added incredulously, "Good Lord, you've gotten huge!"

"I'm eight months gone with child, you idiot," she snapped, moving with him as she was still hanging off his arm.  "What did you just do?"

"Besides comment on the increasing girth of your waistline?  Made a deal with himself, down there," Jack replied, moving towards the quarterdeck.  He suddenly stopped and slung an arm around her shoulders, whirling the two of them into a protective nook as the spot where they had just been was inundated with a plethora of tiny splinters from where a cannonball had hit the rail.

Stella knew following Jack was a good idea.  Unfortunately, his arm was currently putting pressure on some extremely painful bruises that were not yet ten days old, and she couldn't stop from crying out.

Despite being surrounded by chaos and explosions, Jack noticed her discomfort.  He spun her around—touching another set of bruises and causing her more pain—and peered down the back of her dress (and only the fact that she was startled, petrified, and in pain stopped her from retaliating).  "Egad, Bell, you look like a rainbow," he remarked, before whirling around and continuing on his way, snatching a coil of rope from the deck as he passed.

"You wouldn't be treating me like this if I wasn't pregnant," Stella grumbled, rushing after him.  "I can still castrate you, you know!"

"Aye, but you won't," Jack called back, scampering up the steps.  "Move that for me, would you, love?" he asked absently, gesturing at the cannon.

Off-kilter from all the explosions and her back still throbbing from where Jack had touched her bruises, she did as he asked without question, gesturing perfunctorily and shifting the cannon to point towards the bow.  As Jack moved to tie his pilfered rope to the cannon she just shifted, Stella wondered what the devil her life was coming to, when Jack Sparrow wasn't afraid of her and gave her orders that she fulfilled and dared manhandle her.  Perhaps he could see how truly pathetic she had become.

"Help me!" she cried suddenly.  "Please, I can't... it's too—I can't do it!"

Jack paused in his preparations for whatever it was he was doing, and looked at her with a kind of pity in his dark eyes.  Previously, seeing such an emotion directed at her would've made Stella nearly incandescent with rage, but now she was all too aware that she was pitiful, and could hardly be angry with other people for noticing.

"You've always been a plotter, Bell," Jack eventually said, moving around to the front of the cannon and placing something in the barrel, "up in your head, pulling strings, moving gears, making everyone else do the work.  But now it's time to be a fighter."  He smiled at her, then, and his gold teeth glinted in the sunlight.  "Help yourself, love.  And best get out of the way."

His dark eyes moved back to the poop deck, and Stella could see Becket coming her way.  Moving mechanically, Stella staggered down the stairs and back onto the poop deck, cowering in the shadow of the helm—there was still far too much happening on deck for her to make it safely below.  Better to just hide and ride it out.

* * *

 

The chaos topside seemed to reflect the chaos in his mind.  Naturally, Jack Sparrow was in the absolute centre of both, standing on the quarterdeck with a rope in his hand, attached to a... cannon?

Beckett squinted at this strange tableau, taking a moment to synthesize what was happening.  When the light dawned, there was only one conclusion.  "You're mad," he breathed, horrified.

Jack grinned at him, ready to light the cannon.  "Thank goodness for that—because if I wasn't, this would probably never work," he quipped easily, lighting the fuse.

Becket threw himself to the deck a mere moment before the cannon discharged.  It was so close he could feel the air move above him as the cannonball passed overhead, and it seemed as though his heart stopped beating in that moment when death moved over his shoulders. He had no idea what happened when he was face-down on the stairs, breathing deeply and feeling like he could cheerfully vomit, but when he stood back up Jack was gone.

Captain Groves came up behind him as Lord Beckett watched the Black Pearl sail away, raging silently that Jack had once again managed to gain the upper hand and slip through his fingers.  How the hell did he manage to do that?

"Which ship do we follow?" Groves asked.

Beckett kept his eyes on the black ship, seeking another glimpse of the charmed and charming rogue that had just kicked his way through Beckett's carefully laid schemes.  "Signal the _Dutchman_ to track down Sao Feng. We follow the _Pearl_ ," he ordered coldly, wanting nothing more than to run down that son of a whore this very second.  "How soon can we have the ship ready to pursue?" was his next query, as he reminded himself they couldn't chase the _Pearl_ at the moment, since they'd just sustained God knew how much damage.

In an ironic and unhappy twist of fate, he could hear a cracking sound that sounded a bit like the falling of a tree, followed by a chorus of screams and shouts, and punctuated by a thud and a smash.  Beckett sighed and closed his eyes.  He didn't want to turn around and see the damage—he could guess already that the mainmast had just been toppled by Jack's insane method of getting back to his ship.

God dammit.  How the blazes did everything—even things that looked utterly insane to everyone else—work out perfectly for that man? 

His temper was not improved by the bald admiration in Groves' voice as he wondered, "Do you think he plans it all out, or just makes it up as he goes along?"

Beckett turned a glare on the captain of his crippled flagship which could've curdled milk.  Groves gulped and quickly excused himself to attend to the repairs.  Left thusly to his own anger, Beckett looked once more to the _Pearl_ , which was rapidly becoming smaller and smaller on the horizon.

_That encounter did not go at all the way I planned_ , he noted to himself.  _How does Jack always manage to get the upper hand?_   It felt like his head was spinning, and he clenched his fists tightly.  _This changes nothing.  I am still getting what I want.  Jack will deliver the Pirate Lords to me, I will exterminate the entire Brethren Court, and I will have plenty of time to chase that particular one down if he slips away.  I control the seas and the skies; unless Jack goes to land—and truly, how long will he manage to stay off the ocean?—I will have him eventually.  This is just a small bump in my path.  The destination hasn't changed._

Feeling considerably calmer, Beckett took a deep breath and turned away from the black ship receding into the distance.  Not that the view of his own ship was much better, what with the mainmast lying across the deck as it was.  He sighed in irritation and went down to return to his stateroom, but was waylaid when he noticed a sopping wet Mercer pulling himself back on board.

_Here's at least one thing that went in my favour_ , Beckett thought, pleased.  He'd been worried that Mercer had been trapped on the _Pearl_ when it fled (Mercer was dashed difficult to kill, so he didn't have to worry about that) but it seemed his henchman had been able to escape... even if it had meant throwing himself into the ocean.  "I want you on the _Dutchman_ ," he announced without preamble as his sodden servant slogged his way over.  "As soon as it surfaces, board it and inform the Admiral that he's to chase Sao Feng down like the traitorous dog he is."

"With pleasure, sir," Mercer replied, craggy face creasing in the closest approximation of a smile he was capable of producing.

Beckett turned his steps towards his stateroom, pausing in the hallway as he recalled that there was now a gaping hole in the wall.  As one part of his mind weighed the merits of moving into a cabin without such a problem versus the annoyance of having to move all his papers and paraphernalia, the rest of him continued giving orders.

"If it can be managed, take Sao Feng and his crew prisoner, and place them on one of the conscript's ships once they are broken to harness.  It would be poetic justice indeed should they crew one of the ships that destroys the Brethren Court," he said, deciding that a hole in the side of his stateroom was a small price to pay for the convenience of keeping his office as was and that he'd have the carpenters come in to affix some shutters over it the minute they finished with the mast.  "And if the Admiral becomes squeamish... you might mention how interesting Sao Feng found his wife."

Beckett and Mercer shared a thin smile, and the latter nodded and bowed before moving to his quarters to collect his things and change into dry clothes.  Beckett went back into his stateroom, which was, thankfully, not too badly disordered.  Of course there were splinters and broken glass littering the carpet, and his lovely little model armada was scattered all across his desk, and most of his trinkets and oddments were laying all over the tables (and many on the floor).  But these things were easily set to rights.  The essential nature of his office hadn't been destroyed.

Indeed, he mused, moving to his desk, it was something of a metaphor for himself.  Though the brief encounter with Jack had left him feeling as muddled and messy as his office currently was, nothing beyond the superficial had been changed.  Soon enough, he would have the debris cleared, and then it would be a return to normal.  Jack changed nothing.  Beckett still intended to destroy him, no matter how Jack did or didn't make him feel.  Nothing would sway Lord Cutler Beckett from his chosen course.  Not even the vestiges of a once-powerful love.

* * *

 

Stella made it back to her cabin unnoticed—though that could be credited more to the turmoil Jack Sparrow left behind him than to anything she did or didn't do.  She could hardly believe Sparrow managed to both get off the _Endeavour_ and destroy the mainmast in one fell swoop.   Then again, Jack always did have the most amazing luck in the world; he could run between the raindrops if it took it into his mind to do so.

He was also right.

She never thought she'd see the day when Jack Sparrow's words held merit, but he was right about her.  She was a plotter.  She looked at people and looked at the situation and thought about ways to get other people to do the actual work.  Her hands had never been dirtied at all; her mind was the mover, and other people were the shakers.  But all the plotting and thinking in the world wouldn't do a thing to save her from Beckett—Beckett was just like her, and he had considerably more power.  Nothing could help her now... unless she was willing to actually stand up and do something.  It was time to act.

She sat down on her bunk and gently ran her fingers over her arms and her sides, feeling the ache as even that soft pressure caused twinges of pain.  Before, the pain of those marks, remembrances of old beatings and tangible evidence of her own shame, filled her with a sense of despair.  Now, however, it filled her with resolve.  Beckett had no right to do this to her... but she had no right to expect anyone else to stick their necks out to help her, either. It was time she stepped up and took some responsibility for her fate.

It was time to decide what she was willing to fight for, how far she was willing to go... and what she was prepared to lose.


	39. Stella Delecti

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which James Norrington finds his line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still unemployed, at the time this one was written (partially in Texas, which was awful).
> 
> _A/N: And here is a chapter I suspect many of you have been eagerly awaiting.  I hope you will enjoy it very much.  Sorry for the wait; not only was it a rather difficult chapter to get through, because it was so significant, but I also moved during its composure.  I had to pack up almost all my stuff (not all, alas; there wasn't room in the car for all my books) and move cross-country again, so that took some time.  Yecch, I hate moving.  And all the while I was trying to extract myself from some nascent depression and continue trawling for employment... it was this whole big thing._
> 
> _And now, onto the story!  (Also, happy belated 4th birthday, Stella and BEA!)_

 

James wished Mercer was anywhere else.  Why on earth had Beckett sent him here?  Was he suspected of disloyalty?  Or was it simply that Beckett didn't trust anyone else with power?

The Admiral knew full well he was in a position of considerable leverage.  If he took it into his head, he could seize control of the _Flying Dutchman_ and do considerable damage to Beckett's fleet.  This was why, James suspected, Beckett was keeping Stella on board the _Endeavour_ and refusing to allow them any time together, and why Mercer was sent onto the _Dutchman_ now.  He had to admit—if only to himself—that the idea was incredibly tempting.  He wasn't blind to the way Stella's face grew more pinched and unhappy as the weeks passed, or of the silent desperation in her dark eyes.  Furthermore, Theodore had been dropping hints that not all was well with his wife, and James could see the merit in stealing the _Dutchman_ under Beckett's nose and forcing him to return Stella to Jamaica.  It was just a silly dream, though; he'd never actually jeopardise their lives and his livelihood like that.  He supposed Beckett didn't realise it; hence, Mercer.

Or perhaps, he allowed, glancing at the man out of the corner of his eye, Mercer's presence had something more personal to do with Sao Feng, whom they were even now chasing down.  After all, the man did just betray the alliance he'd made with Beckett (and, to hear it said, fired on the _Endeavour_ and caused a not-inconsiderable amount of damage, although apparently Jack Sparrow's feat in felling the ship's mainmast was the crowning indignity of that little episode), so perhaps Mercer was along to deliver a final statement of Lord Beckett's displeasure via a knife to the ribs.

Bah!  He was tired with trying to untangle the snarls of Beckett's thoughts.  Mercer was here and must be dealt with, and that was the end of the matter.  James would much rather focus on the upcoming battle.  Not that it would be anything but a rout, of course, but he didn’t want to get complacent.  Sao Feng was, by all accounts, a skillful and cunning sailor, and though James couldn't imagine the pirate had anything that could fend off the _Flying Dutchman_ , he didn't want to underestimate his opponent, either.  Who knew what kind of Oriental trickery Sao Feng might have at his command?  Better to be vigilant and prepare for the worst, rather than charge in over-confidently and be taken aback when something went wrong.

That was a lesson he had learned very well.

They didn't catch up to the _Empress_ until after nightfall, which was a pity— would've been interested in seeing the ship in full daylight.  It looked quite unlike any ship he'd ever seen before and he wished there was more light so he could inspect it after its capture  And capture it they did; after a few salvos, the _Dutchman's_ crew went over, and the Chinese pirates could not surrender quickly enough after that.

"Didn't put up much of a fight, did they?" Davy Jones remarked from what was becoming his habitual position behind James' left shoulder.

"They never do," was the Admiral's curt response.

Since his unwise remark to Jones regarding his intentions to carry on as things were, which revealed rather more than James wanted to show about his inner turmoil, the captain of the _Flying Dutchman_ had redoubled his efforts to worm his way under the Admiral's inscrutable facade.  James, entirely aware of what Davy Jones was trying to do, did his best to avoid the captain; when circumstances forced them together, he was curt and stony.  Though Davy Jones acted polite and almost respectful, James could not and would not forget what the monster had done to poor Stella.  Affectations aside—and the more well-mannered side of Jones was just that—Jones would not hesitate to stick the proverbial knife in the moment any tender spots were shown, and James was resolved to avoid displaying of any such targets.

That in mind, he immediately moved down from the _Dutchman's_ quarterdeck and headed over to the _Empress_.  Jones followed him, of course, but moved much more slowly, and by the time the Admiral got over to the Chinese ship, the captain was much farther behind him. Things on the ship were going well; the crew had been corralled by the Dutchman's crew, and it looked like this would be a very simple capture.

Then things went screwy.

There was a commotion up on the.... well, he supposed it was the quarterdeck; James wasn't entirely sure how, precisely, this strange new ship was laid out.  But when he looked up to see two figures barrelling out on deck, and being immediately restrained, he thought he recognised one of them.  A moment later, he realised he definitely recognised one of them, though she was dressed oddly, and her hair much fairer and skin much darker than he recalled.

But he knew her.  God, he knew her.

"Elizabeth?" he called tentatively, staring up at the golden figure.

The woman started and looked down at him, and it was indeed she.  Relief spread across her face, accompanied by a sensation that felt a little like being hit in the chest.  His breath whooshed out of him in a swift rush, and it felt like his stomach had fallen immediately down to his toes.

"James!" Elizabeth cried. She shook herself free of the guard and rushed down to him.  James felt his body moving, and without much further mental input he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close.

She was alive—truly, wonderfully alive.  On a pirate ship, yes, but it seemed pirate ships were becoming her natural environment, as Port Royal's drawing rooms had once been.  However, Elizabeth seemed much more at home on the former than in the latter.  At any rate, James would've been glad to see her anywhere, as long as she was alive. Some part of him had given Elizabeth up for dead, despite (or perhaps because of) what Stella had said, and having her here, now, alive and in his arms, was a soothing balm on a wound he hadn't even been aware of having.

She smelled of salt, and something spicy and unfamiliar; her body was stronger and less delicate than he remembered it being, on those rare occasions when he had been in a position to notice.  In short, the Elizabeth he currently had in his arms was very different from the Elizabeth of his memories.  But she was still Elizabeth Swann, and she was still hale and hearty.

"Thank God you're alive!" he said fervently, releasing her and stepping back to look at her face, which was darkly tanned but as phenomenally lovely as ever.  "Your father will be overjoyed to know you're safe."

Something in Elizabeth's dark eyes seemed to shut down, and her expressive, beautiful face went still.  "My father's dead," she replied simply.

What?  "No, that can't be true... he returned to England," James protested weakly.

"Did Lord Beckett tell you that?" Elizabeth asked sarcastically, her face going stony and her tone going cold.

But her voice was no colder than the chill that seemed to creep down James' spine.  It had been Beckett who told him that—or rather, it had been Beckett who had told everyone.  He'd first heard it from Groves, and later Beckett had confirmed it, and it seemed everyone on the _Endeavour_ accepted that Swann had departed for England.  Considering the overwhelming belief and the other issues demanding his attention, James hadn't questioned Beckett's assertions.  Besides, he assured himself, if something nefarious had happened to Swann, Stella would've known about it, and would've said something to him.

...Then again, when did she ever have a chance to?

Epiphany dawned with an unwelcome shiver.  He and Stella had not been alone enough to have a private conversation in weeks—since the departure of Swann, for that matter.

Of course.  Stella knew that Beckett had murdered Swann, and Beckett wanted to keep her from telling everyone else.  That was why he and his wife were being kept so assiduously apart, why Mercer dogged their footsteps whenever they were together.  It would also explain the deep sadness that seemed to linger in Stella's eyes, and the frightened desperation that had come to characterize her of late.

Dear God, Lord Beckett had murdered Weatherby Swann—a crown-appointed official, a member of the gentry, one of Beckett's clients/subordinates/pawns.  Murdered him simply because... what?  Swann had ceased to be useful?  Swann knew too much?  Why ever the deed was done, James had to wonder, in a small part of his mind, whether or not his own fate was to be the same.  He knew everything Swann did—more, even—and if he ceased to be useful... if Stella gave birth and the baby could be used as leverage over her mother instead... if the Greek Fire was discovered... it was likely James Norrington would be served the same way as Weatherby Swann.

His slow comprehension of the situation and the creeping horror that accompanied it was interrupted by Davy Jones, who had finally made it down to the _Empress_.  "Who among you do you name as captain?" he bellowed.

And then the crew was pointing at Elizabeth.  Elizabeth was captain.

James felt even more confused.  His entire life seemed to be reeling.  What on earth was the world coming to?  Right was wrong and wrong was right, up was down and Elizabeth was a pirate captain, he was married to someone else and expecting a child with her but he hadn't actually been in her company for more than an hour for months, and trading company lords were murdering their ways through the nobility and no one and nothing was safe...

Davy Jones moved over. "Captain?" he asked, sounding incredulous and maliciously pleased at once.

That jerked James out of his shock.  Absolutely not.  He knew full well what happened to the unfortunate women left on the _Dutchman_ , and he would not leave Elizabeth to suffer as Stella had—especially since Elizabeth had no one else to protect her and guarantee her life.  He hadn't been able to protect his wife, but by God he'd protect Elizabeth as best he could.

"Tow the ship," he snapped at Jones, stopping the monster in his tracks.  "Put the prisoners in the brig. The captain shall have my quarters," he finished, softening his tone and looking down at the woman he had once adored more than anything and anyone on this earth, to whom he still reacted on a visceral level, and whom he would likely love in some capacity for the rest of his time alive.

But there was no answering warmth in her eyes.  In fact, she looked very coldly at him and stepped away, as though his presence was repugnant to her.  She blamed him, though James wasn't sure for what.  For believing Beckett?  For not saving her father from death?  For his ignorance regarding the same?  For stealing the heart in the first place and landing all of them in this predicament?  "Thank you, but I prefer to remain with my crew," she replied curtly.

James caught her arm before she could move away, wanting her to understand, not wanting her to look at him like that.  "Elizabeth, I swear I did not know," he insisted quietly.  And he did not.  He hadn't dreamed Lord Beckett would dare to go as far as he had.  If he'd had the slightest idea before now, he would've done something, would've revealed himself as the leader of the Greek Fire conspiracy and stood against Beckett, would've taken Swann and Stella and fled somewhere Beckett's arm couldn't reach... would've done anything but go on in blithe ignorance as a dear friend was coldly murdered.  Elizabeth had to know that—she couldn't possibly think so ill of him as to believe him complicit in her father's death?

Or perhaps she could.  "Know what?" she snapped, jerking her arm out of his grasp. "Which side you chose?"  She moved deliberately away from him, towards the throng of sailors which he supposed were her men.  "Well now you do."

James stood there woodenly and watched as she was marched off to the brig, feeling a bit like he'd been punched in the gut.  He supposed this was the pattern of their relationship; Elizabeth always chose the pirates over him.  And oddly enough, even after all this time and the distance between them, it never stopped hurting.

And of course, as he was standing and feeling his world descend into utter turmoil, he heard the most unwelcome voice in the world right behind him, and equally unwelcome saliva landing on his neck.  "Well now, isn't this... interesting.  Who, pray tell, was that?"

"That was apparently the captain of the _Empress_ , Captain Jones," James replied tightly.

"Quite," Jones agreed.  "But that's not all she is, methinks.  You knew her," he accused, sounding entirely gleeful.  There was a weighted pause.  Then, "You loved her."

James clenched his jaw so tightly his temples started to ache, and stormed away from Jones without another word.  Jones, however, was unwilling to let the matter lie, having finally found a weak spot in the Admiral's stone wall, and limped after him as fast as he was able.

"Yon pretty piratess must be why you don't love your wife.  Does she know?" Jones called after him, as James fled back to the _Dutchman_.  "Does poor, puling Stella know her husband's heart lies elsewhere?"

At that, James stopped, slowing to a halt in the shadow of the mainmast.  He closed his eyes for a moment, dredging up whatever emotional fortitude he had in him.  Jones was going to have this conversation somehow, and James had rather it be done with relative privacy between the two of them than have the contents of his heart shouted across the deck.  When the step-thump of Jones' gait was closer, James turned and fixed the captain with cold green eyes.  "I did once love Elizabeth Swann, yes.  Not that it's any of your business," he replied gruffly.

"I would wager you love her still," Jones said, blue eyes blazing as he moved closer.  "And I would wager that she doesn't love you.  Is that so, Admiral?"

James was rapidly approaching the end of his patience with the captain, and with this subject.  He turned a baleful glare on Jones and bit off his words sharply as he responded quietly, "It is, captain.  If you must have the entire history, then I tell you this: Miss Swann and I met nearly fifteen years ago, when I was a lieutenant and she was a child.  I courted her when she came out, proposed when I was made Commodore, was accepted by her but only so that she could persuade me to do as she wished, was rejected later at the aborted hanging of Jack Sparrow, did not see her again after leaving Jamaica until our reunion during the pursuit of your heart, during which I betrayed her to acquire the same.  There—a concise history of my dealings with Miss Swann, much good may it do you," he finished bitterly.

Jones was now looking at him in a very measuring way, his beard writhing slowly.  "Strange," he remarked contemplatively, drawing the word out into two curt syllables, "that you speak only of your betrayal.  What of hers?"

"Not you too," James grumbled, rolling his eyes.  Stella had already waxed magniloquent on the subject during the early months of their acquaintance, and he had no desire to hear any more on the topic from Davy Jones, of all people.

"I find it odd, Admiral, that you were brought low by this... woman, and yet you still defend her," Jones noted, pulling his heavy silver pipe out of a pocket and stuffing it with... God only knew what he was stuffing the pipe with.  James certainly didn't want to.

"Not all of us can transfigure our love to hate with your alacrity, Captain Jones," James retorted snidely.

"Are you even trying?" Jones shot back immediately, as the area of his face that could be broadly referred to as "eyebrows" lifting over his bright blue eyes as he struck a match on his crab-claw hand.  "Or are you content to wilt pathetically in unrequited love for the rest of your life?" he inquired, lighting the substance in the pipe and inhaling.

James scowled fiercely, no longer in a mood to humour Jones' impertinent inquiries—not the least because his words sounded a lot like things Stella had asked him on that awful day when he'd first learned he'd mired himself in some kind of demented relationship pentagon.  "Captain Jones, this is none of your business," he snapped.  "I have no desire to speak any further on this matter."  And he turned to go.

But Jones' voice made him pause.  "I had thought better of you," he said, and the smoke from his pipe drifted past James' head.  "That witch of yours would kiss the deck you walk on, if she weren't too fat with your brat to kneel, and you brush her off like an overexcited dog."  There was a tapping sound, and James assumed Jones was tapping out the ashes of his pipe.  "And here's me, thinking that this is a man smart enough to avoid the traps and snares of those perfidious harlots... but it seems you're just a man after all, no cleverer than any other, captured by a pretty face, and the only reason your wife can't have your heart is because you gave it away to yonder pirate wench first.  Does she know?"

James swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat and tried not to flinch at the pain in his chest, before turning back to face Jones, understanding now why he had been so relentless in the pursuit of this information.  Apparently, Davy Jones saw a twisted reflection of himself in James Norrington, and wanted to... what?  Relive his own life vicariously through what he thought James' was?

"You're just like her, you know," he said coolly, but with a telling roughness in his voice.  He was heartsick and discombobulated, and wanted nothing more than to retire to his cabin and lick his wounds.  At Jones' blank look, he elaborated, "My wife.  You're just like her."

Admittedly, Jones wasn't so much like Stella as she was now, so much as he was just like Stella back when she was Black Stella Bell, the wind-witch of Tortuga, who would find a weak spot in a person and stab at it until she got the reaction she wanted.  He wondered if Stella wasn't right, and Jones had been part of the supernatural brotherhood before... well, everything.  Could Davy Jones have made a better fate for himself if things hadn't gone sour with the legendary woman?  Or, conversely, could Stella, tired and aching from loving him and getting nothing in return, one day carve out her heart and twist herself into just such a monster as the one before him?

Another stab of pain lanced through his chest at the thought.

Meanwhile, Jones had apparently found the comparison to be unflattering in the extreme.  He stomped forward and spat, "I am nothing like her!"

James meticulously wiped Jones' saliva off his face, feeling rather cheered by the fact that he seemed to have scored a point against Jones, however unwittingly he'd made it.  "I think you are," he said.  "Perhaps that's why you hate her so much."  And he turned again and left.  Jones didn't stop him, this time.

He woodenly saw to the towing of the _Empress_ , and heard from Mercer that Elizabeth and her men (Elizabeth had men) were stowed safely in the brig.  And then he went to the quarters Elizabeth had scorned, sat down on his bunk, buried his head in his hands, and went under.

That was the only word for it, after all.  It felt like he had been pulled under a dark and turbulent sea, like he'd gone down as the _Dauntless_ had in that hurricane that destroyed her, almost a year and a half ago, now.  Only this time, the storm was inside him.

What was he going to do?  He couldn't just hand Elizabeth over to Beckett to be enslaved and worked to the bone on one of the Armada's ships—or worse, considering she would be one particularly lovely woman among so many dissolute men.  But he couldn’t disobey Beckett's orders, either, especially with Mercer right there watching him; Stella would pay the price for his defiance, and he couldn't countenance any harm coming to his wife.  But he didn’t want any harm coming to Elizabeth, either!  What was he to do?

It seemed he'd found that line he was unwilling to cross, James mused bitterly, and that line was Elizabeth Swann.  But even as Elizabeth pulled him away from that treacherous moral ledge, Stella pulled him towards it.  Crossing that line—standing back and letting Elizabeth face pain and death without lifting a finger to protect her—was morally repugnant to him... but if he did not cross that line... if he did not do his duty and obey, his wife—his pregnant, witty, loving wife who had been and still was his best friend in the world—would likely suffer an equal amount of torment in retribution for his rebellious behaviour, and it would be his fault entirely.  What recourse was there?

In that moment, he wanted Stella with an intensity that bordered on physical pain.  He wanted her here, with him.  He wanted to wrap her in his arms and rest his chin on the top of her head, wanted to place his hands on her pregnant belly and feel his daughter kick.  He wanted to talk to her about this horrible, heart-rending conundrum he was stuck in—even if she was part of the problem—and listen to whatever advice she could give him.  He wanted to hear her black-coffee voice dispensing wit and wisdom and even the occasional snide, sarcastic quip, wanted to see her roll her black eyes and smile—any smile, even if it was just the sad, wan half-smile that she wore nowadays that didn't do a thing to lift the misery in her eyes.  But he missed her smiles—the restrained upward quirk at the corners of her thin lips; the wry grin when she was amused; the rare, beautiful smile that she only gave to him when she was unabashedly, purely happy.  He wanted to reach out and touch her hair and let the Kraken-infested locks wrap themselves around his hand.  He just wanted Stella.  He needed Stella.

They were stronger together than they were apart—which was probably why Beckett was trying so hard to keep them estranged—and now, here, at what might possibly be the lowest, darkest part of his life (because Tortuga couldn't compare to this moral bankruptcy he was now struggling with, where he had a choice to be a good man and lose everything, or compromise his integrity and become something that was less than James Norrington), he wanted his wife here with him, to take counsel and comfort with her.  He wanted to know if she could live with him if he chose to cross the line, chose to hand Elizabeth over to Beckett and turn his face away, wanted to know if it would tarnish his soul beyond her ability to endure, wanted to know if she would flinch and turn away from looking at him if he sold his integrity for safety and stopped being the same man.  He wanted to know if she could forgive him if he held tight to his honour and chose to save Elizabeth, bringing down Beckett's wrath on their heads and Beckett's punishments on Stella's body.  He especially wanted to know if she could show him any better choices, or some idea of how to extract himself from this coil.  He wanted her to sigh and put her fragile white hands on top of his and lean forward to press a kiss to his brow.

This was heartbreak—every moment and sensation he'd thought was heartbreak before now was a pale shadow to this aching, rending pain.  How was he supposed to choose?   Duty or honour?  Lawfulness with immortality or unlawfulness with integrity?  Tacit consent to Beckett's atrocities, or taking a stand, however risky, against him?  Saving Elizabeth, or protecting Stella?  The woman he still loved, or his wife?  The woman who only ever seemed to cause him pain, or the woman he'd sworn to protect, who was his best friend, who was carrying his child?

James felt like he was poised on the edge of a great chasm, about to totter off the edge into the darkness.  Elizabeth was wrong; he hadn't chosen a side yet.  He was poised right on the edge of doing so.  He had sworn to protect Stella, and to do that he was obligated to obey Beckett's mandates and uphold the law, no matter what his personal feelings.  By his honour, he had to choose Stella.  And yet all he could feel was despair.

And then, through the black morass, came Stella's voice.  Later, James wouldn't be sure if it was just some kind of conceit produced by his emotionally exhausted mind, or if it was truly a visitation and Stella had reached out to him across the leagues between them. It didn't matter, though.  Her voice came to him in his darkest hour and whispered in his ear as her phantom hand brushed gently against his shoulder: _Don't damn yourself for me, James._

He jerked his head up out of his hands and looked around the dim cabin.  "Stella?" he asked hoarsely, unsure of what he was hoping to see, but wanting some tangible sign that she was here, or had been here.  But there was nothing—just the memory of her words.

_Don't damn yourself for me, James_.

He took a deep breath, and stood.  For the first time in a long while, his path was clear.

* * *

 

"Bootstrap?  Bill Turner?"

Bill blinked a few times, the sound of his name pulling him out of his blank, semi-somnolent state.  Someone was calling him.  He didn't know much these days, but he knew that was his name.  "Bootstrap," he repeated.  "You know my name?"

He detached himself from the wall and looked to see who wanted him.  But as he did, his fingers brushed against a yellow scrap of cloth that he always kept in his hand, and the black star embroidered thereon.  And the memories washed over him again, and he remembered.

He blinked a few times, confused, after the flood of memories passed and he recalled that Stella was no longer in here with him—she had left him, and given him this spell to keep his memories of her fresh.  He wasn't sure how long ago that had been, though.  He glanced at these new people in his cell, surprised to see a woman among the other prisoners.  That woman wasn't Stella, though.  She was bright and golden, as fair as summer—unlike Stella, who was dark and pale as the winters he barely remembered anymore—and she was beautiful, dressed in outlandish garments and staring at him with burning brown eyes.  It had been she who spoke his name.

"Yes," she said, moving to lean against the pillar in the centre of the cell—the pillar, Bill recalled, which Stella had once used to hang a curtain from, to make a partition where she'd dress in privacy.  "Yes, I know your son.  Will Turner."

"William," Bill said with a smile.  William was still alive—Stella had told him so, every day when she was still living here, with him.  His son was still alive and safe and somewhere out in the world, working on a way to free him.  "He's alive.  And now he sends you to tell me that he's coming to get me!" he cried jubilantly.  He laughed from joy.  "God's spoons!  He's on his way."

The golden woman nodded.  "Yes, Will is alive," she assured him.  "And he wants to help you."

Bill remembered Stella's promise, when she left him, that she would help his son along however she could.  "Have you seen Stella?" he asked.  He knew the Admiral was on the _Dutchman_ , and had been since Stella left him, but Bill hadn't seen the man at all, nor heard any word about how Stella fared.  Had Will seen her, and been helped along by her?

The other woman blinked at him, as if confused.  "Who?" she asked.

"Stella Norrington.  She promised she'd help William, if she saw him.  Has she seen him?  Have you seen her?" Bill pressed.  He wanted to hear news of how Stella was doing.  Was she safe and happy, somewhere on land?  Had she given birth to her daughter yet?  When had she seen his son?

"No," the golden woman replied, her full lips creasing in what Bill suspected was dislike.  "No, I haven't seen her in months.  Why do you... how do you know her?"

"She was here," Bill replied, sad that there was no news of Stella.  "Jones kept her prisoner here for months, on Beckett's orders, until her husband took her away."

"And James—Admiral Norrington—allowed that?" the woman asked sceptically, sneering a bit at the title.

"I don't think he had much choice," Bill admitted, more focussed on the golden woman than on a man he didn't much like.  He had a feeling he knew who she was.  If she knew William, Stella, and Admiral Norrington, and disliked the latter, he was willing to bet this was Elizabeth.  Elizabeth, whom his son loved, whom Stella's husband had loved, the aristocratic lady who had chosen his son over all her other suitors.

She was certainly beautiful, Bill thought.  Beautiful and proud and fiery; she'd make a marvellous pirate.  Perhaps not quite what he'd imagined as a daughter-in-law; then again, he probably wasn't a normal father-in-law, either.  But he could see how she'd captivated his son, how William could come to love her more than any other person on the face of the earth.

"He can't help me," Bill said gloomily, realising now the price William would have to pay for his father's freedom.  "He won't come."

"But you're his father!" Elizabeth protested.

"And he's my son," Bill retorted simply.  Elizabeth still didn't understand, and he changed tacks, to try and make her understand why William couldn't help him—why he shouldn't help him. "I know you," he announced, pointing at her.  "William and Stella spoke of you.  He can't come because of you."

Elizabeth was clearly taken aback.  "Me?" she repeated.

"You're Elizabeth," was all that Bill needed to say.

She nodded her golden head. "Yes, I'm Elizabeth."

She still didn't understand—she wasn't as quick as Stella was, this one.  Stella would've grasped his point already, and understood, and might even be thinking about ways around the problem, though Bill doubted if even her quicksilver mind could find a way out of this pickle.  Elizabeth didn't seem to be as swift to comprehend the nuances of the situation, so Bill spoke plain. "If Jones be slain, he who slays him must take his place. Captain forever. The _Dutchman_ must always have a captain. If he saves me, he loses you," he explained.

This was not something Jones would not want to be widely known, but Stella had always talked to him about the conclusions she was drawing in regards to the ship.  She had guessed that Jones had bound his heart to the ship with a curse, in a way where, should someone tried to break the curse, they'd be entangled with it, and the day she left that hypothesis had been confirmed.  Now, the nature of the curse on Jones' heart was something of an open secret among the _Dutchman's_ crew.

William, however, had no idea.  Perhaps that would've influenced his promise to free his father; perhaps not.  But Bill didn't want to see his only child swallowed by Jones' curse, doomed to sail the _Flying Dutchman_ and give up the woman he loved so dearly.  William deserved to have a wife and a family and a life outside this miserable galleon.  William was his son, and Bill would sacrifice anything to give his child the life he deserved—it was part of being a parent.

Elizabeth looked sick; she understood now the way the wind was blowing.  "I see."

"He won't pick me. I wouldn't pick me," Bill added with a self-deprecating shrug that couldn't hide his despair.  He didn't want to spend the rest of eternity in the _Dutchman's_ brig, but he didn't want to condemn his son to take his place on it, either.  He had to act the father and put his son's welfare above his own desires.  Perhaps this would pay for all the years he'd been absent from his William's life. "Tell him not to come," he ordered Elizabeth hollowly, moving back to the bunk where Stella had once slept, and where he would be content to slowly merge with the ship.  It was as good a place as any, after all, and if he kept his star he could maintain at least some of his memories, and remember that William was alive and Stella was safe somewhere else.  "Tell him to stay away. It's too late. I'm already a part of the ship."

"Bootstrap..." Elizabeth entreated.

"No," he insisted, stroking his embroidered star and letting the memories therein streak across his mental sky.  "Don't let him damn himself for me. He deserves a life with you, away from this ship.  He shouldn't chain himself here for my sake.  Tell him not to come."

And then he sank into Stella's spell and was lost to the world outside.

* * *

 

James slipped quietly down the stairs into the brig, moving with purpose.  He had made sure that no one saw him leave his cabin—not that it would matter over-much, he supposed, if he was seen.  Speed was the element of most importance; secrecy wouldn't avail him much in the long run, since he was intending to reveal himself and his plans before the end of the night.  He hoped to move with such swiftness that Mercer didn't have time to murder him before they clapped him in the chains he would see so many others wear.

That was the plan, anyway.  He would release Elizabeth, move against Mercer, and then assume control of the heart and the _Flying Dutchman_.  He would then use Davy Jones to infiltrate the _Endeavour_ , spirit Stella away, and they would all escape Beckett's clutches before sunrise. James intended to settle her somewhere far away from the Caribbean—perhaps the colonies?—where she could bear their child in peace and safety, and then return, as controller of the _Dutchman_ , to work with the Greek Fire against Beckett.  Beckett's crusade against piracy was a just ideal... but the reality of it was drenched in innocent blood, and James was resolved to have no further part in it, and to set himself firmly and actively against its corrupt leader whenever he could.  In this case, the letter of the law was not the right path.  There was a higher standard to which he must hold himself, and he could no longer obey Beckett's twisted orders at the cost of his honour, his integrity, and his soul.

He paused at the bottom of the stairs for a brief moment, steeling himself, and then stepped into the brig for the first time since he took Stella out of it.

It looked the same.  Aside from the new occupants, the brig—and Stella's cell—looked exactly the same, and James was irrationally perturbed by it.  It shouldn't be the same—not without Stella in it.  To him, this was Stella's space, no matter that it belonged to Davy Jones and that Elizabeth and her men were currently occupying it.  Stella had lived here, had suffered here, had made this dim, dingy place her home for months in heartache and anguish and fear, and he felt as though there ought to be something to mark the time she passed within these bars.  This space had left such a mark on his wife that it seemed somehow unjust that Stella left no mark in return.

At least, nothing visible.  Nevertheless, James couldn't come to the brig—couldn't even think about the brig—without feeling like a piece of Stella was with him.

That was why, he suspected, he hadn't been able to enter before now.  He didn't want her to see what he was becoming, nor desire to face it himself.

Making an immediate beeline for Stella's cell and ignoring the confused and hostile stares from its occupants, James unlocked the door.  "Come with me," he bid Elizabeth, stepping back and leaving the door open in a tacit invitation.  Elizabeth didn't move, remaining with her back against the central pillar, watching him with wary brown eyes, her lovely face set in hard lines.  James stifled an annoyed sigh.  She didn't trust him, obviously, but couldn't she see he was trying to help?  "Quickly!" he insisted.

Elizabeth stared hard at him for another long moment, weighing him silently.  Whatever she sought, she apparently found, since she turned to the man at her right and nodded curtly.  With the captain's permission given—and if James had doubted her place before, he certainly didn't now—the Chinese sailors began to swiftly and quietly file out of the cell.

"What are you doing?" Elizabeth asked quietly, moving to the door but coming no further, as if she couldn't quite believe his actions were genuine.

James met her eyes, feeling unafraid and unashamed for the first time in a long while.  And for a moment, he thought he could see Stella, standing beside Elizabeth, as ephemeral as a ghost... but smiling at him.  "Choosing a side," he replied simply.  He'd made his choice; he chose not to cross the line, chose to cleave to his honour and remain James Norrington as he was now, trying to be a good man in the face of all obstacles.  Chose to be a man his wife could look at without cringing, and who would strive to maintain the purity of soul she insisted he had.

Elizabeth was satisfied, and stepped out of the cell after her men.  He gestured silently for her to ascend the stairs, and she went, still watching him warily, as though she thought it was a trick.  James turned back only once to look over his shoulder as he stepped out of the brig after Elizabeth, but Stella was gone. The cell stood empty, now—completely empty.  The sense of Stella that had permeated even the very air was gone.

Instead, it seemed to James that she stood at his shoulder.

He led Elizabeth and her men quietly and as inconspicuously as possible to the stern of the ship, where the rope that towed the _Empress_ was tied.  Admittedly, this had them all carefully edging along a ledge on the outside of the ship, but if they were all quiet, no one would see them.  And they all were quiet; though they were out of the cells, the pirates still understood how much danger they were still in. 

Once they reached the stern where the towlines were anchored, the Chinese men immediately leapt up onto the lines and started shimmying over to the junk, moving as swiftly and silently as monkeys through the forest.  But Elizabeth paused in the corner, still staring at him with those hard brown eyes.

She was so different from his memories—brighter, stronger, harder.  Even from the last time he'd seen her, sailing with her on the _Black Pearl_ , she had changed.  He still loved her, of course—she still made his heart pound and his stomach lurch—but she was not the same woman he'd fallen in love with, with the spirited smile and the sparkling eyes.  Indeed, he was not sure Elizabeth as she was now, with her hard mouth and her set jaw and her warrior's wariness, was a woman he could love—or should he love her, if he could ever live with her.  If he was given a choice to have Elizabeth now... if she spoke to him here and now, in this instant, offering to leave her ship and her men and Will Turner and stay with him for the rest of her life... James wasn't sure he'd take it.  There was too much distance between them; they had both changed too much.  He loved her still... but he was no longer in love with her.  He could no longer imagine making any kind of life with Elizabeth as she stood before him now.  All that remained between them were memories, regrets, and the shards of old feelings.

"Do not go to Shipwreck Cove," James advised her softly, moving his eyes to stare out across the water at her ship and the men moving across the ropes towards it, perhaps to avoid looking at her and seeing the way she looked at him.  Though he was no longer in love with her, he did not want to see her regard him as an enemy, either.  "Beckett knows of the meeting of the Brethren.  I fear there may be a traitor among them."  If Elizabeth stood with the Brethren, she would perish with them.  James didn't want to save her life only to have her throw it away later.

"It's too late to earn my forgiveness," Elizabeth said suddenly, angrily, stepping out of the alcove in which she lingered and glowering at him.

James turned to look at her. "I had nothing to do with your father's death," he told her intensely, offended that she would think so little of him, or believe he was doing this only for her.  There were a myriad of reasons he was now defying Beckett, and Elizabeth was only a small part of it.  Most of his motives had to do with the fact that he could no longer serve Beckett and his twisted crusade while being the kind of man he wanted to be.  He cringed inwardly as he recalled some of the things Beckett had him do, which had led him to this decision.  "That doesn't absolve me of my other sins," he admitted softly, shamefacedly, almost to himself as he looked down at the _Dutchman's_ deck.

"Come with us," Elizabeth invited suddenly. He glanced up at her in surprise, but she was looking off at her ship. "James, come with me," she offered again, and this time she turned and met his eyes.  They were slightly softer, but still with a telling hardness.  She had forgiven him for his perceived crimes, but she would not forget; Elizabeth had seen and done too much to do so.

James shook his head, opening his mouth to explain why he could not, explain that he meant to mutiny (but did this count as mutiny if he was the Admiral?) and save his wife and fight against Beckett, when he was interrupted by a very, very unwelcome voice.

"Who goes there?"

James glanced up to see Bill Turner's face, and cursed himself for a fool—why hadn't he remembered to shut the damn door behind him?  He shoved Elizabeth behind him and drew his sword; he would have to deal with this, in any way he could. He could only hope that Turner had enough wits about him to understand and keep silent.  If not, perhaps James would mention Stella and for her sake, perhaps Turner would do as commanded.  "Go," he bid Elizabeth, keeping his eyes on Turner Senior, who had vanished from above and was likely making his way down to join them. "I will follow."

"You're lying," Elizabeth accused him, with horror in her voice.

He looked at her, then, and tried to see the girl he'd fallen in love with inside the pirate woman she'd become.  There were remnants of Miss Swann, but not much more.  That was all that was left of him and Elizabeth—just remnants.  "Our destinies have been entwined, Elizabeth... but never joined," he said to her softly, echoing the words Stella had spoken to him when he left Tortuga in Elizabeth's company, so many months ago.  _Don't forget this, or she'll break your heart again_ , whispered his memory as well, finishing the advice which he had carried at the forefront of his mind during his time on the _Black Pearl_.  _I won't forget_ , he assured Stella's memory.  _But it matters not; Elizabeth Swann no longer has the power to break my heart. Still... just once,_ he thought guiltily.

And then he leaned down, and pressed his lips to hers.

_Just once_ , he thought again, allowing himself this moment of indulgence, a farewell kiss... the first, last, and only kiss he and Elizabeth had ever shared, and would ever share.  It tasted of sorrow, and loss, of regret and bittersweetness and guilt.  It was everything he once thought he wanted... and yet, something he no longer desired at all.

He broke the kiss, which had been more about closure than passion, and pushed Elizabeth away, towards the rail and the towrope and escape.  Part of him was grateful he had a chance to kiss her, even if it was only once, and put paid to the last of his fantasies and dreams; most of him, however, wished he hadn't done it, and prayed heartily that Stella would never, ever find out.  He'd hurt his wife enough without bringing unfaithfulness into the morass as well.

"Go! Now!" James ordered Elizabeth, mentally bidding her goodbye—perhaps for good—before turning back to Turner, who was lurching forward slowly, as though he'd forgotten how to walk.  Perhaps he had; Lord knows the man hadn't been out of that cell for ages.  But James' sympathy was limited; he'd come too far to have Will Turner's father ruin things for him now!  "Back to your station, sailor," he ordered coldly, pointing his sword at Turner's heart.

"What the devil are you doing?" Turner demanded, lurching towards him, a dangerous-looking wooden spike held in his hand.  "Where's Stella?"

"She's on the _Endeavour_ ," James replied softly, trying to coax the crazy person to silence by example while still keeping half an eye on his weapon.  "Now quiet!  That's an order!"

"You betrayed her," Turner accused, turning watery blue eyes on James in a fierce glare and brandishing the spike.  He seemed more lucid now, though not at all inclined to be any quieter.  "I know who that is," he added, pointing to the slender figure on the towline.  "That's Elizabeth.  You love her," he went on.  "You love her, and not Stella.  Stella says you can't disobey or she'll suffer, but you're disobeying and doing it for another woman!" he shouted. 

"Steady, man!" James barked, drawing his pistol.  He would shoot to keep Turner quiet—it wasn't as if it would do him any lasting harm, and hopefully a pistol shot would be much more easily ignored than someone shouting.  He lowered his voice and hissed, "Do you want to bring the entire crew down on our heads?  I'm trying to save Stella, and you're mucking it up!"

"Save her?" Turner repeated, sobering instantly and speaking much more softly, as though Stella's name was a magical charm to sooth the savage beast.  "Is she in danger? What's wrong?"

"Beckett has her—I'm trying to set her free," James explained quickly, trying to simplify the situation in order to convince Turner to quietly stand down without ruining his plans. "She needs my help, and you're preventing me from getting it to her!"

"She needs you," Turner said slowly, as if the concept were a foreign idea that had only just dawned upon him.

James spared a bare moment to wonder how Stella had managed to tolerate Bill Turner's company during the months she was locked in a cell with him.  He didn't seem very bright, and James couldn't imagine his extremely clever wife having much patience for someone as dense as the man before him.  Then again, he supposed she didn't have much choice, either.  "Yes, she needs me," he snapped, losing his patience.  "And I can't help her if you alert the entire crew to what I'm doing!"

"You need to go to her," Turner said, as though it was the easiest thing in the world.

James wondered if they were having two entirely different conversations.  "I'm trying to," he replied slowly, adjusting his grip on his pistol, slightly worried about the maniacal light that had come into Turner's pale blue eyes.  Stella occasionally got a look like that in her eyes, and in his experience nothing good ever came of it—she'd once looked like that whenever thinking of the _Flying Dutchman_ , for example, and look what happened there.

"Tell her, when she sees William, to tell him not to come," Turner said sadly.    James wanted to ask just when he thought Stella was going to be in company with his son—assuming that was the 'William' that Turner Senior was talking about—but was distracted when the man nodded at the towline and said, "Best be going, then."

"I'm not going," James snapped peevishly.

"But Stella needs you," Bill said, confused.

"Which is why I'm going to assume command of the _Dutchman_ and go to her," James replied, as though he was talking to a slow child.

"No, she can't stay here.  She needs you," Turner barked.  "Go to her!"

Right.  Reasoning was clearly not working; Turner was stuck in his own insane mindset and would not be moved by rational arguments, and James no longer had the time or the patience to pretend otherwise.  So he scrapped his plan for stealth and switched tacks over to speed.  He whirled around, checking that Elizabeth and her men were free of the _Dutchman_.  They were, and he spared one last look for the woman he had once loved, before aiming his pistol at the towline and firing.  The ball tore through the ragged cord, which snapped, releasing the _Empress_ from the _Dutchman's_ control, and dropping Elizabeth and all her sailors into the ocean.  He wasn't terribly worried, though; he knew for a fact that Elizabeth could swim, as could most sailors worth their salt.

However, when he turned his attention back to Turner, intending to rush past him and muster the marines to take control of the ship, he was greeted by a blow to the head that knocked him for six.  Head ringing and reeling, James dropped his sword, rendering himself even more helpless and unable to fight when Turner grabbed him and hoisted him over the side of the ship.

_I'm going to die_ , James thought distantly, vaguely aware that there was blood on his face and that Bill Turner was throwing him off the _Dutchman_ head-first.

"She needs you," was the last thing he heard.  "Go to her!"

And then he was falling, falling down into darkness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   _A/N part deux: And that's that!  This was a hard chapter to write; I had to re-write... like, three times (which was another reason it took so long).  But please review, and let me know what you think!  Especially because there's only about ten chapters left in the story as a whole.  Egad!_
> 
> I think I still have the early drafts of this chapter, too... somewhere. But since so much weighed on this chapter, it was pretty tough to get through. I was mostly okay with it once it was done, though.


	40. Stella Viduitatis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which William Turner impresses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N: And we're moving on! This isn't a very long chapter, but it's here.  Actually, the next few chapters are going to be relatively brief, come to think of it.  Hopefully that'll just mean swifter updates, though my muse is a fickle tart._
> 
> The part about the muse is and has always been very true. ;P

Stella knew Will Turner was coming long before he arrived on the _Endeavour_ , and she owned to herself that she was actually rather eager to see him.  She was interested in seeing how time had changed him, whether he had fulfilled his destiny or was still moving towards it, and whether that sense of promise she'd felt in him had flowered.  She was also intending to make good on the promise she'd made to Bootstrap Bill Turner, to help his son however she could.

Two days after Jack Sparrow had wreaked such havoc on the ship—and, by Stella's reckoning, about twelve corpses of marines laid out as a trail later—the sailors pulled another barrel out of the ocean, upon which was the thirteenth corpse and the living body of William Turner the Younger.

She had been topside to see it, since Beckett depended on her to call the winds to propel the _Endeavour_ along as fast as it was able.  It was difficult work—not the least because she was tired and aching from her pregnancy, and absolutely  covered with mottled bruises.  Beckett had not been pleased with the way the meeting with Sparrow had turned out, and he took his frustrations out on her.  Sitting hurt, standing hurt, moving hurt, and laying down was absolute agony.  Most of the time, Stella felt like a walking ache, and it made her command of the winds a little less firm than usual.  She had to concentrate much harder than was her usual wont to bend the breezes to her will.

However, she had been there, on deck with a cup of grog and a towel in hand, when Will Turner was hoisted out of the ocean.

Young Turner had been clinging to a barrel for quite some time, it seemed, and just collapsed onto the deck in exhaustion. He didn't seem to notice the marines who quickly surrounded him, or care about the fact that they were pointing muskets at him.

"Let me through," Stella ordered quietly, approaching the phalanx with Mr. Sewall in tow.  "He'll do me no harm.  He's here to make a deal with Lord Beckett."  Looking dubious, the marines let her pass, and Stella had Mr. Sewall offer the grog to Turner—she was too awkward at the moment to kneel (or get back up without help once she'd done so).

"Thank you," Will said hoarsely, squinting up at her.  He accepted the grog and drank thirstily, and then used the towel she handed him to wipe the salt from his eyes, sitting up and shaking his head as he did so.  It was only then that he seemed to notice just who it was that was helping him.  "Miss Bell?"

"Mrs. Norrington," Stella corrected him mildly.  "It's lovely to see you again, Mr. Turner, even in times such as these."

"Quite," Will agreed, sounded faint and confused, his dark eyes moving from her face to her waist.

"Your father is well," Stella added softly.  She amended, "Relatively," after a moment, reasoning that Will Turner was not a stupid young man and couldn't possibly believe that Bill Turner was entirely well in his situation on the _Flying Dutchman_.

Will Turner fixed his dark eyes on her, then, giving her the full weight of his attention, and Stella was struck by it.  When she first met William Turner, he was a young pup of a lad, not yet fully grown; the second time she saw him, he was still more a boy than a man.  Now, however, he had come into his own and just about grown into his full potential.  He was fully a man now—a strong, powerful, commanding man, on the very cusp of his inevitable fate—driven by his desire to free his father and willing to do anything to achieve it.  Previously, Stella had regarded Turner _le fils_ with anything from indifferent scorn to patronizing tolerance, but the man before her now was someone she could possibly come to respect.

"You've seen my father?" Will demanded, staggering to his feet in order to look her in the eye.

"I have," Stella replied, nodding.  She would've said more about how she and Bootstrap Bill were friends now, and that he knew Will was coming, and that she'd promised Bill to help his son however she could, and that she'd done her best to preserve his father's memories and stave off Davy Jones' malice... but Captain Groves interrupted.

"Mr. Turner," Groves said, unable to entirely hide the surprise in his voice.

Of course, Stella now recalled, Groves and Turner knew each other,.  Groves had been James' Second Lieutenant when he was still Commodore Norrington and Captain Norrington before that; surely Groves had met William Turner, if not before the events of the _Black Pearl_ than surely afterwards, when Turner turned pirate and stole the Commodore's fiancée.

She watched the two men curiously as they interacted; there wasn't much sign of any previous amity between them, and Groves was just as terse as usual when he ordered Turner to be escorted to the brig until Lord Beckett made a decision about whether or not to see him.  Perhaps Groves did remember Turner and the harms, however unwitting, he'd inflicted on James Norrington.  Perhaps she'd ask him about it, later.

But for now, Stella was resolved to see and speak to Will Turner.  She wanted more news about what Jack Sparrow was up to, and she wanted to know what his plans were, so that she could both adjust her own and honour the promise she made to his father.  She also wanted to ask about Tia and how she was faring, and what Davy Jones' Locker had been like, but the latter two were a little less pressing.  Tia was obviously still well and alive on the _Black Pearl_ , since Stella had seen her there, and her curiosity about the Locker was just that: curiosity.  It would harm no one and benefit no one, whereas her other questions were considerably more important.

 Stella waddled down to the galley and collected some food and another mug of grog before enlisting Mr. Sewall to help her down to the brig.  This little pilgrimage of hers, down to the brig to tend to the prisoners, was something the _Endeavour's_ crew had gotten used to. The men shrugged it off and said that Mrs. Norrington had a soft heart; Beckett rolled his eyes and said something about it being her lookout if she wished to throw pearls before swine.  None of them understood that it was penance and not compassion, but Stella didn't care.  Besides, it gave her an excuse to see Will Turner in relative privacy without anyone raising a brow.

Will was already standing near the bars when Stella arrived on the arm of Mr. Sewall; she supposed he'd heard her bells chiming.  He was obviously eager to see her, though, and hear whatever news she could tell him of his father.  "Mrs. Norrington," he said as she approached, nodding to her.  "Thank you," he added as she handed him the grog and the hardtack, which he immediately knocked against the bars (to free the weevils) and started eating after a swift, polite, "Excuse me."

"Of course. I imagine you haven't eaten in some time," Stella noted, amused  at the evidence of how Will Turner had grown.  When he first met her, he'd been so frightened by her that she doubted he would've sneezed in her presence without permission.  That he was now confident enough to act as he would without fear of another was... strangely compelling.  She thought Bill would be proud of the man his son had become.

"You've seen my father?" Will asked after he finished chewing, immediately returning to the issue which was, to him, of paramount importance.

"I have.  I was kept on the _Flying Dutchman_ for some time, in the same cell in which Jones keeps your father," Stella replied.  The brig was nearly empty at the moment, with the guards stationed far enough away that if she and Will kept their voices low they would remain unheard without any fancy tricks needed, and Mr. Sewall retired a respectable distance away at a gesture.  She and Will were left reasonably alone. Though she didn't wish Mercer's company on anyone, let alone James, she couldn't help but be glad that Beckett's servant was far away.  This conversation couldn't happen if he was on the ship as well.

"My father's in a cell?" the younger Turner demanded, sounding horrified.

"Jones was very angry when he helped you escape," Stella pointed out.  "But don't fret.  Bill is, for the most part, entirely forgotten, given that Jones has more pressing troubles at the moment.  I should think Bill's largest problem is the nature of the _Dutchman_ to absorb those who are on it for a long time, especially given how stationary your father is out of necessity. I did what I could to counteract Jones' enchantments, and Bill knows that you are alive.  He should be strong enough to withstand for at least a little while longer."

Will was staring at her with shrewd brown eyes, and Stella was surprised to note the keenness in his gaze.  Will Turner when he was younger had not been noted for either his observational skills or his judgement.  "I'm surprised, Mrs. Norrington, that you're being so kind.  I didn't think you liked me," he commented frankly.

"I don't," she replied, equally frank.  "I don't doubt that you're a good man, Mr. Turner, but you gravely injured my husband.  However, your father was a true friend to me when I was placed at Jones' nonexistent mercy, and showed me great kindness when I expected none.  For his sake, I will do all that I can to help you free Bootstrap from his captivity.  I promised him, you see," she finished quietly.

Will looked steadily at her for a few moments more, weighing her and judging her sincerity.  Evidently he found what he wanted, since he eventually nodded and took a swig from the mug.  "Thank you," he said.

Stella nodded in return.  "So, Will Turner, how do I best help you?" she asked, stepping even closer to the bars of the cell and lowering her voice.

"Tell me how to best convince Beckett to help me," Will responded, also moving close to the bars and softening his own voice in turn.   Stella was well aware that they probably looked exactly like conspirators (or lovers), but since Will was here to deal with Beckett she doubted there was any harm.

"Can you deliver him the Brethren Court?" Stella asked.  "Because that is what he seeks."

Will fished a familiar compass from his pocket and subtly displayed it for her, before slipping it back into his clothes.  "I can lead him to Shipwreck Cove.  I was doing so, anyway, with the barrels before... well."

_Before Jack Sparrow threw me off the ship._

Stella wondered just what game Jack Sparrow was playing.  She didn't think he'd be so unguarded as to let Will Turner, of all people, steal his prized compass.  Though Turner the Younger had gotten much more cunning of late, he wasn't that cunning.  Of course, there were foxes who could never hope to be more cunning than Jack Sparrow.  So, if Will had the compass, Jack wanted him to have the compass.  No doubt he had some twisted plan that even she would have a hard time fathoming; still, she wished she knew what was happening so she wouldn't unwittingly work against a plot that might benefit her.  "And what is it you plan to ask for in return?"

"My father's freedom from Jones, and safety for Elizabeth and myself," Will replied promptly.

"He might very well be amenable," Stella mused, after a moment of thought.  "But I would advise that you take your father and Miss Swann and get as far away from Beckett as you can, the moment you can.  He will guarantee your safety for only so long as it is profitable for him.  After that, he'll turn on you in an instant," she warned him.

Will nodded grimly, marking her words.  "Can you talk to him, and get him to see me soon?" he asked.

Stella shivered involuntarily at the thought of actually seeking Beckett out, and then hissed softly as the movement made her bruises ache.  "I can send a message to him, asking that he allow you to present yourself and your case.  But I don't go near him unless he summons me," she replied lowly.  She paused a moment, considering, then swallowed and added, "Don't let Miss Swann near him, if you can help it."  She didn't like Elizabeth Swann one bit, but didn't want her to be harmed by Beckett, either. Will's dark eyes flickered quickly across her body, before moving back up to her face.  Stella smiled bitterly.  "Do you think he would be foolish enough to leave marks where anyone could see them?" she asked rhetorically, moving the shoulder of her gown aside to display the edge of a vivid green bruise  on her pale skin.  "Keep her away from him as much as you possibly can."

"She wants revenge; I'm not sure how successful I'll be," Will admitted, pity shining bright in his dark eyes.

"For her father," Stella nodded, understanding. "If I was in a better position, I'd take vengeance myself.  Poor Weatherby deserved better," she said savagely, clenching her fists around the cell's bars.  "We'll make him pay, though," she promised softly, almost to herself, gripping the metal so tightly her knuckles turned white.  "One day, we'll make Beckett pay."

"I..." Will began, then stopped abruptly and looked down, blushing a bit under his tan.  Stella stifled a smile, realising that, under all his new competence and worldliness, Will Turner was still, in many ways, the same polite, earnest young man she'd met years ago. "Forgive me for asking this, Miss... Mrs. Norrington, but why... you never struck me as the type of lady to sit back and let things happen to you without fighting back.  Why do you let Beckett treat you thus?  If you want revenge, why don't you take it?" he asked.

She heard what he left unsaid.  _If you hate Beckett so much, why don't you fight against him?_

"Do you know where my husband is right now, Mr. Turner?" Stella asked, releasing her grip on the bars and folding her hands demurely across her pregnant belly.  Before Will could reply—the question had been rhetorical, anyway; she knew full well that he had no idea, and didn't care to know, either—she answered her own query. "He's on the _Flying Dutchman_.  Do you know where Mr. Mercer is right now?  He's also on the _Flying Dutchman_.  And do you know what will happen should I disobey Beckett's commands?  I imagine you do," she went on grimly.  "My husband will get a knife in the back as a price for my defiance, and I cannot countenance such a thing."  She spread her arms and gestured at the cells around them.  "I am trapped here as surely and strongly as you are—stronger, even."  She knocked gently on the metal bars and said, "Iron bars and steel chains cannot hope to bind tighter than the fetters of our own hearts, for we wear them willingly."

Will nodded in understanding, a commiserating look on his handsome face.  He knew very well just how tightly the bonds of the heart held.  So did Stella, now that she was willing to acknowledge that they were there.

Last night, she had dreamed she was back on the deck of the _Flying Dutchman_ , surrounded by the pirates her secrets had purchased from Davy Jones.  James was standing on the quarterdeck, but she couldn't break through the throng of men to get to him.  They kept blocking her path, and one of them—the kind one, whom she recalled was named Shehu—kept telling her, _There's no shame in love, lady_.

She hadn't wanted to listen to him when he first said that to her; she'd been heartsore and frightened and discombobulated and in no state to listen to anything or anyone on the subject of love, which she had feared at that moment above all things (until she learned that there were more terrible things in her life than the contents of her own heart).  Now, with time and distance and a little more equanimity, Stella could acknowledge Shehu's words as truth.  There was no shame in loving James.  She wasn't precisely happy about it, and if given the chance would prefer not to, considering how utterly it had ruined her life, but there was no shame in doing so.

She could save her shame for other things which more deserved it, such as her selfishness, her callousness, and her arrogance.

"Fate isn't satisfied with inflicting one calamity," Will finally remarked, breaking the silence. Stella glanced at him, surprised.  She hadn't thought Turner to be much of a reader, let alone of the Latin classics.  "You told me that," he added, seeing her expression, "when I was on Tortuga, looking for Jack.  It... stuck in my mind, since it was later proved to be true."

Stella couldn't stop the wry smile from curving her lips at the thought of Will Turner quoting Latin classics he picked up from her.  "I shall give you another, Mr. Turner: 'Calamity is virtue's opportunity.'  Seneca. Let us hope that he will be as apropos as Syrus," she said ruefully.

She already felt that it was relevant for herself, if she was going to be honest—and she was.  She never would've understood just how inadequate her own character was, if not for this debacle.  And now that she knew, she had the chance to improve herself, to prove that she was better by not letting Beckett and the actions he demanded taint her.  Which isn't to say she was happy with the state of affairs—she wasn't.  But she was acknowledging the miniscule silver lining in the blackness of the clouds around her.

"I hope you're right, Mrs. Norrington," Will agreed gloomily.

"Chin up, Mr. Turner," she told him.  "But not too far up—Beckett despises shows of pride in anyone but himself.  Be confident in what you bring, but acknowledge him as superior, and you'll do well enough.  I think he'll see you tonight," Stella added, with a strong hunch tugging at her mind.  "Good luck."

With that, she left Will Turner in the brig and went above, collecting Mr. Sewall on the way and dispatching him with a message to Beckett, asking that he listen to the proposal Mr. Turner had to offer.  She wasn't surprised when Beckett summoned her to his stateroom for supper; slightly dismayed, perhaps, but not particularly surprised.  Beckett would want her to both weigh Mr. Turner's words for truthfulness and, if anything went contrary to Beckett's desires, pay for it herself.

Beckett had a perverse desire never to talk business over a meal, so they made edged, extremely awkward (at least on Stella's part) conversation over supper.  She ate well, despite the uncomfortable environment; she was finally gaining back some of the weight she'd lost on the Dutchman, and didn't doubt that the better food was good for her daughter, even as the company wore on the mother.

"You've spoken to Mr. Turner," Beckett remarked, once the supper dishes had been cleared.

"I have," Stella replied evenly.  She wanted to make a sarcastic remark about having spoken to Mr. Turner four times in her life, and which occasion did he wish to hear about?  However, she held her tongue.  Becket did not appreciate her wit, and she had enough bruises.

"Can he be of use to me?" Beckett inquired.

"He can lead you to the Brethren Court," Stella replied.  "If you define that as 'of use', then yes, Mr. Turner is useful.  The trail of bodies and barrels was his doing," she added, watching Beckett carefully.

"Was it?" Beckett said, a faint hint of surprise in his voice and a small, pleased smile in the corner of his mouth.

_He was expecting it from someone else—Sparrow, perhaps?_   Stella thought.  _Plans within plans... there must be more traitors on the_ Black Pearl _than even Beckett knows_.  _He was expecting only Sparrow, and now Turner comes to his side as well_.

"How pleasant," Beckett went on, returning his face to its usual impassivity.  "We we definitely see Mr. Turner.  Have him brought up from the brig, and make some tea."

Stella nodded, and hoisted herself up to do as he asked.  She resented the way Beckett treated her as though she was either his housekeeper or his wife, but knew better than to protest, or show any signs of pride, especially after all this time.  Better to just shut her mouth and take it, until the time came that she could fight back without fear of a strike against James.

"And Stella?"  She turned back to see a small, unfriendly smile on Beckett's lips.  "Summon Davy Jones," he ordered, sitting back and looking pleased with himself.

Yes, she supposed he would be.  Stella just nodded and turned to her tasks.  Once a sailor was dispatched to bring Turner to the stateroom, another sent for hot water, and a summons gone out to Davy Jones, Stella waddled back to the table, and sat back down.  Beckett liked to pretend as though they were still in an aristocratic parlour, instead of a ship; as the only woman, it was up to Stella to "play mother", so to speak, and serve the tea. 

Will was shown into the stateroom moments later.  "Mr. Turner," Beckett greeted mildly.

Will bowed in return.  "Lord Beckett," he replied calmly.

"Please, sit," Beckett invited, gesturing to the chair across the table.  Once Will was seated, Beckett folded his hands on the table and regarded the dark young man calmly.  "I'm told you have a proposition for me, Mr. Turner."

"You want the Brethren Court, Lord Beckett," Will replied respectfully.  Good; he'd listened to her about the best way to approach this.  "I can lead you to them... but I want something in return.  That is my proposition."

Beckett looked pleased.  "I believe we can do business, Mr. Turner," he said, nodding.  "I recall Mr. Mercer telling me your price, as stated to Sao Feng in Singapore, was your father's freedom."

"It is one of my conditions, yes," Will agreed, as the door swung open and the cook brought the requested hot water.  He discreetly set it on the table, and then left just as discreetly.

"With that in mind," Beckett said, nodding, "I have summoned the other party involved in that matter, but he has not yet arrived."  He glanced at Stella out of the corner of his eye, keeping the majority of his attention on Will.  "Tea, Stella."

Stella unobtrusively measured the leaves and poured the water into Beckett's china pot as Will and Beckett discussed other matters. Yes, it had been Will who left the trail of bodies for the _Endeavour_ to follow; yes, Jack was still working for Company interests, as far as Will knew, since it had been Jack's idea in the first place to toss him off the _Pearl_ and thus send him to Beckett.  Yes, the pirates were getting rather desperate in the face of Beckett's overwhelming force, but Barbossa seemed to have something up his sleeve...

"Has it anything to do with the nine pieces of eight?" Beckett demanded, leaning forward tensely.  He was so very worried about those pieces of eight.

"I don't think so," Will replied, shaking his head.  "He said they—the Brethren—have Calypso on their side."

Stella inhaled sharply.  There was a familiar name. Not only had _The Odyssey_ been one of her very favourite books when she was a girl (she and Isaac used to play Odysseus and Circe when they were children, and pretend to turn Isaac's brother George into a pig), Calypso was also mentioned in the family grimoire.  Mirela had known her, after a fashion, and been favoured by her until she vanished sometime in the 1630's.  Isabella theorised, on the page devoted to the subject, that Calypso had been trapped somewhere, since she had not yet diminished to one of the Small Gods; there had to be outside interference involved in the fate of the sea goddess.

Good God...

Pieces started falling into place.  Something had happened to Calypso, roughly around the time the first Brethren Court met.  The Brethren were summoned through use of a song which used lyrics claiming the king stole the queen and bound her.  Barbossa, a Pirate Lord, claimed that the Brethren had Calypso at their disposal.  Tia Dalma had revealed in Singapore that she was the queen referred to in the song, and that the Brethren Court—with whom she was quite angry, Stella knew—had bound her.

Tia Dalma was Calypso.

One of her best friends was a goddess.

Beckett's eyes had snapped to her face the minute he heard her gasp, and he watched her closely. "You are familiar with this person," he remarked, noting her reaction.

Stella nodded, once, sharply, and clenched her fists in her skirts to keep her emotions from showing on her face.  Beckett could know that she knew something about Calypso—that was safe, and already done at any rate—but he mustn't know that Stella was actually acquainted with her, or realise that Calypso was about as likely to help the Brethren Court as Stella was to sprout wings and fly.  "She is mentioned in the grimoire.  Not much is written about her—she is a sea goddess, of course—but she vanished more than a century ago.  Apparently the Brethren Court had something to do with it, if Barbossa means to... use her now.  She will be a formidable adversary if they can... harness her abilities," she finished delicately, mentally adding _and if they can_ _convince her not to destroy them outright, which I do not think at all likely_.

Damn and blast!  It would be so much harder for the Greek Fire to be effective if Beckett wasn't distracted by the Brethren.  If Tia was released and destroyed the Brethren for daring to have the gall to imprison her, she'd be doing Beckett's work for him.  Perhaps she could be reasoned with?  Or talked into destroying most of the armada along with the Brethren Court?

She kept her face impassive as Beckett stared at her a moment longer, weighing her words and judging if she was holding anything back, before nodding curtly and turning back to Will, shifting the conversation towards Barbossa and his plans, which Will was unfamiliar with, and Calypso, about which Will knew even less.  Subsiding back into silence, Stella reached for the pot to pour the tea, which was done steeping, and paused when she felt a tickle at her senses.  The _Dutchman_ had surfaced, and Davy Jones was here.  He'd certainly taken his sweet time about it.

She fixed Beckett's cup in silence—lemon, no milk, one sugar—and then asked Will's preferences.  He wanted two sugars, no milk, so she poured his tea and added the sugar before carefully handing the cup over.  She wondered, idly, as she waited for Jones' entrance, if this was what her life as Lady Beckett would've been, had she taken leave of her senses and accepted his proposal.  Would she have been this downtrodden and bruised?  Would she have always been expected to keep to the sidelines in silence, barely seen and not heard at all unless she had information Beckett wanted?  She recoiled inwardly, disgusted.  Her relationship with James, however rocky it might be at the moment, was infinitely more welcome to her.  And perhaps she might even be able to see her husband for even a brief moment, while the _Dutchman_ was here—even a glimpse across the rail would be welcome.

They heard Jones before they saw him, as was usually the case, thumping loudly down the halls of the _Endeavour_.  The doors flew open with a flourish and a whiff of rotting fish, and there stood Davy Jones.  "I cannot be summoned like some mongrel pup!" Jones snapped, shoving one of the guards away like an annoying gnat, and biting off the last word as though he dearly wished his teeth were buried in Beckett's throat.

"Apparently you can," Beckett noted dispassionately.  Stella bit her lip to hold in her snort.  "I believe you know each other," he went on, gesturing to Will, who had his back to the door. Will turned around and nodded hello with an impertinent smile, lifting his porcelain teacup (the same one, oddly enough, that Stella had shattered and reconstructed some weeks ago when Sao Feng had been on board) in a semi-mocking salute.

Jones stumped over to look Will in the face. "Come to join my crew again, Master Turner?" he asked with a mocking laugh.

"Not yours," Will replied, utterly calm in the face of Jones' malice.  "His."  He took a sip of tea, and then added, as though it had only just occurred to him, "Jack Sparrow sends his regards."

"Sparrow?" Jones repeated in confusion, looking from Will to Beckett.

Beckett closed his eyes in a wince as Will glanced quizzically over to him with wide brown eyes, as though he was completely unknowing of the fact that he just told Jones something Beckett would much rather he didn't know. "You didn't tell him?" he asked Beckett innocently, as the aristocrat pursed his lips in annoyance and looked away. Only Stella could sense the cunning under Will's innocence, flavouring the air around him as he played the fool for his own purposes.  "We rescued Jack from the locker, along with the _Black Pearl_."

_You know, Mr. Turner_ , Stella thought amusedly, _I think I could come to like you quite a bit._

"What else have you 'not told me'?" Jones demanded harshly of Beckett, stepping closer to loom over the shorter man.

"There is an issue far more troublesome," Beckett demurred, taking his teacup and saucer and standing, moving towards the globe in the centre of the room. "I believe you are familiar with a person called Calypso?"

Jones startled and flinched, as though he'd been struck.  "Not a person. A heathen god," he corrected hoarsely. "One who delights in cursing men with their wildest dreams and then revealing them to be hollow and naught but ash," he added, snarling fiercely.  "The world is well rid of her."

"Not quite so well, actually," Will said lightly, taking another sip of tea before driving the proverbial knife in to the hilt. "The Brethren Court intends to release her."

Judging by the horrified expression on Jones' face, Will's barb had found its mark.  He looked from Beckett, to Will, to Stella where she sat silently and meekly at Will Turner's left hand, then back to Beckett.  "No! They cannot! The first court promised to imprison her forever. That was our agreement!" he shouted.

"Your agreement?" Beckett inquired softly, raising his brows.

"I... showed them how to bind her," Jones admitted awkwardly, as though the words were being pulled from him.  Stella could tell the subject was hurtful for him, and was spitefully glad to see it after all the emotional wounds he'd inflicted on her.  "She could not be trusted. I... she gave me no choice. We must act before they release her."

Will reached the same conclusion Stella had arrived at several minutes before.  "You loved her. She's the one," he realised, before his voice hardened.  "And then you betrayed her."

"She pretended to love me!" Jones spat, storming, almost involuntarily, over towards Will.  "She betrayed me!"

Will took another long sip of tea, before standing to face Jones, unafraid. "And after which betrayal did you cut out your heart, I wonder?" he goaded softly.

Jones knocked the cup out of Will's hands with a sharp gesture, and it shattered on the floor.  Stella bit her lip—it seemed that cup was fated to be broken whenever there was an emotional upset in this cabin.  "Do not test me," Jones snarled.

"I hadn't finished that," Will remarked mildly, in a pointed display of how completely unafraid of Jones he was, due to how little power Jones had.  It was a cut Stella herself would've been proud to make, had she been in a position to do so.

_Yes, I could definitely come to like you, Mr. Turner_, she thought, sipping her own tea to hide her smile.

But then he shed the mantle of affected lightness, and let his intensity shine through.  "You will free my father," Will promised darkly, addressing Jones with complete confidence.  Then he turned towards Beckett, standing next to his globe.  "And you will guarantee Elizabeth's safety, along with my own," he went on, moving closer to Beckett, either as a way to imply where the true power in the room rested, or because Jones' fishy odour was becoming overpowering.  Possibly both, Stella allowed.

"Your terms are steep, Mr. Turner," Beckett remarked, glancing over at Jones before moving his eyes back to Will.  "We will expect fair value in return."

"There is only one price I will accept," Jones hissed, inserting himself back into the negotiations, unwilling to be dismissed as no threat.  "Calypso... murdered!"

Will blinked a few times, raising his eyebrows.  He was obviously surprised and a little taken aback by Jones' vehemence, before apparently shrugging it off.  "Calypso is aboard the _Black Pearl_. Jack has sailed the _Black Pearl_ to Shipwreck Cove," he offered in a helpful tone, moving to inspect the globe and the shining instruments mounted upon it.  He poked at one of them curiously, and to Stella he looked like a young boy with a shiny new toy.

"And with you no longer aboard her, how do you propose to lead us there?" Beckett inquired, setting his cup on the desk and turning his full attention to Will—although more because he didn't want him breaking any of his instruments than for any real concern about Will's abilities to deliver what he promised.

Will jerked back as the instrument he'd been toying with snapped back towards his face. Jones took a couple of threatening steps closer to him, implying that if Will couldn't deliver he would be back on the _Flying Dutchman_ keeping company with his father before dawn.  But Will wasn't disconcerted.  Instead, he stuck his hand into his pocket and pulled out a familiar tool.  "What is it you want most?" he asked with a charming grin, letting the compass dangle from his fingers.

Beckett's face creased in a pleased smile.  "Bravo, Mr. Turner," he remarked quietly, after a moment, sounding very amused.  "It seems you have fulfilled your end of the bargain after all."

Stella smirked a bit at that, understanding the cause of Beckett's amusement, and even sharing it, to an extent.  She recalled that Will had been originally commissioned to bring that exact compass to Beckett in exchange for his and Elizabeth's freedom, back before this had all really begun, when Stella and James had been living on Tortuga and had never even heard the name 'Cutler Beckett'.  And now, more than a year after he had left, Will was returning and doing exactly as Beckett had wanted in the first place.  She supposed this was the very definition of irony.

It had been a very, very educational evening, complete with unexpected amusements, but now Stella wanted to see her husband.  She'd have to move quickly; as Jones had finished his dealings with Beckett, he'd be on his way soon enough, and she'd be lucky to catch a glimpse of James, and perhaps exchange superficial greetings with him, before the _Dutchman_ sailed away.  Still, seeing him for even a moment was better than not seeing him at all.

That in mind, Stella heaved herself out of her chair to the tune of the silvery bells around her neck, managing not to wince as the motion made her bruises ache.  Most movement nowadays did, and she was getting used to the constant pain.  "With your permission, Lord Beckett, I would like to go and see my husband," she requested softly, pretending a meekness that was nearly anathema to her character, but necessary when dealing with him.

Before Beckett could reply, however, Jones gave a snorting laugh.  "You'll have to go fair far to see him, witch," he mocked, brightening visibly at the opportunity to taunt her.

Stella felt a chill run down her spine, and clenched her hands in her skirts again to keep them from trembling in fear, well aware that all three men in the room were watching her, and two of them were just waiting for her to display any weakness so they might use it against her at their leisure.  "Is he not on the _Dutchman_?" she asked slowly.  What had happened to James?  They hadn't received any word of problems—then again, Jones would hardly let them know, would he?  But she hadn't noted any portents or had any dreams or read anything in the cards or the stones that indicated misfortune for the Norrington family.  What was Jones talking about?

"Not any more, wench," Jones informed her, malicious glee dripping from his voice.  "His body's floating somewhere out at sea."

All the colour washed out of Stella's face and she swayed on her feet, reaching out to grab the edge of the table and steady herself.  Jones couldn't be saying what she thought he was saying... could he?

"Aye, harpy," Jones went on relentlessly, stumping closer so he could see just how much pain he was causing her, "your husband's dead."

"No," Stella whispered.

She was distantly aware of losing control of her hair, of feeling it fall from its twist and writhe around her arms; of Will Turner coming to her side and hovering near; of Beckett asking Jones to clarify.  She didn't hear much of what was said over the roaring in her ears, but she did hear 'Elizabeth Swann' and gather that James had been the one to set her and the crew of the _Empress_ free, in defiance of Beckett's orders.

And then Jones pulled a familiar sword out from his coat, and showed it to Stella with a cruel little smile on his face.  And that was when she knew that Jones was telling her the truth.  "My crew threw his body overboard.  Kept this, though—it's a nice sword," he added nastily.

Stella's knees buckled, unable to support her weight.  Will caught her before she could hit the floor, but she didn't even register the pain as his grip put pressure on her bruises.  How could she feel physical pain when it felt like something inside her was tearing open?  It felt like she was only being held together by the crushing grip around her chest which made it hard to draw breath, even if the air could get past the massive lump rising in her throat.

She didn't even have his body to bury.

Was this how her mother had felt, after her father's death?  No wonder Eleanor had curled in on herself, like a lobster curling around the fork embedded in its vitals, and left Stella to see to all the arrangements.  For years, Stella had resented her mother for leaving a girl of fifteen to deal with the inevitable fallout of the loss of their protector, provider, and patron, and for having to make the choice to leave Antigua when it became clear that they would be unable to continue living there, since no one would give them credit and they had no source of income without Edward Bell.  She'd resented her mother for drawing into herself and leaving Stella to be the adult.  But if this was the kind of gut-wrenching pain that Eleanor felt once Edward was dead, Stella finally understood.

Who cared what happened in the outside world when its centre had already been destroyed?

She allowed Will to steer her back into a chair, and she sat mechanically, staring at the bright blade in Jones' claw through the tears gathering in her dark eyes, slowly beginning to understand that her husband was dead and she was a widow, despite all her efforts to make her fate otherwise.  Her daughter would never know the father who had so looked forward to her birth, and tried so hard to protect her.  She herself would have to carve out a new place for herself in a male-dominated world, and fight to keep herself and her child safe from Beckett.  But even worse, she would be forced to go through the rest of her life with the terrible knowledge that she would never see James again, or make him smile, or hear him laugh, or get to talk to him about some aspect of the world which was old hat to her but brand new to him.  She would have to live with the knowledge that she had loved him with her whole heart, but he hadn't loved her, and had in fact gone off and died for another woman he'd always loved more than her.

The rest of her life stretched before her, empty and cold and colourless.  It really did feel as though someone had stuck a fork in her, and was now twisting around her torn, tattered heart. Uncaring that Beckett and Jones were in the room watching her fall apart and revelling in her pain, she just sat woodenly at the table, and let the tears spill down her cheeks.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N part deux: And here we have a fine example of dramatic irony._


	41. Stella Noctis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stella hits the nadir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe this is still 2010...
> 
> _A/N: I'm actually having a lot of fun writing these new chapters, which is probably why updates are coming so fast.  Y'know, in a relative sense.  This might be the last in that series, though, because... (drumroll) I GOT A JOB!  I'm starting work here, pretty soon, so my long-awaited employment will be demanding my attention.  Just so you know._

 

 

Stella was never sure, in retrospect, how she got back to her cabin.  In fact, the rest of the night was a dark blur.  All she remembered, when she thought about it later, was being told by Davy Jones that her husband was dead and then being swallowed by an ocean of grief.  She remembered crying at Beckett's tea table until she dismissed her, and then laying in her bunk and crying until her pillow was soaked.  She wept until she was exhausted and fell asleep, sleeping badly and waking occasionally to soak her pillow with tears once again.

But by the time the sun was breaking over the horizon, Stella had no more tears to cry.  She let her subdued hair writhe around her freely and watched the light creep into her cabin, feeling utterly empty, as though someone had gone at her insides with a spoon, scooping out everything from her neck down.

_James is dead_ , she repeated to herself.  She'd been saying that to herself since she'd learned of it, and the pain accompanying those three words hadn't gone away.  It had just changed.  By now, it was less like being stabbed in the chest with a rusted knife and more like someone had opened up her torso and was clawing at her viscera, possibly trying to make sure they'd gotten everything out of her in their quest to make her empty.

She toyed with the idea of just... staying here.  Of not getting up to face this day or any other, of laying on her bunk and wallowing in her misery, surrendering to the forces stacked against her.  Let Beckett do what he would, let Jones do what he would, let the whole world go to hell for all she cared; she had no more fight in her, and getting up to face the rest of her life as James Norrington's widow seemed a task too insurmountable even for her.  She was tired of the constant battle her life had become.

But then her unborn daughter kicked out at her ribs with particular fierceness.  Stella winced, and rubbed her belly to soothe her, but the child would not be calmed.  She kept kicking vehemently until Stella sat up and got out of bed.  Then she settled down.

Stella smiled, and understood.  "You're a fighter, aren't you, my dear one?" she remarked, rubbing her belly gently.  Her daughter was already a little Amazon, and she wasn't even born.  "Perhaps you can give me some strength; I seem to have spent all of mine," she murmured bitterly, sitting down at her vanity and looking into the mirror.

But then she gasped; the reflection staring back at her wasn't Stella Norrington, but instead Eleanor Abernathy, Stella's long-dead mother.  Eleanor looked as she had soon after Edward Bell had died: pallid, grief-stricken, empty and unresponsive—about how Stella felt at the moment.

The vision faded swiftly after, but Stella had seen, and understood that she might become like her mother—weak and apathetic and leaving the hardships of life to be dealt with by someone else while she drew inward and grieved.  And though she had loved her mother and still missed her to this day, Stella had always sworn that Eleanor's fate would not be hers.  Was she now going to give the lie to those proud proclamations?

Suddenly, Stella was angry—angry with her mother, with Jones and Beckett and Will Turner and Elizabeth Swann, angry with James himself... but mostly, she was angry with herself, for daring to be tempted, even for a moment, to act like such a weakling.  _I won't be like that_ , she swore inwardly, fisting her hands in her nightgown.  _I won't_.

Out of nowhere, she remembered what Will Turner had said to her yesterday: _You never struck me as the type of lady to sit back and let things happen to you without fighting back_.

_I will fight_ , Stella promised herself—and her daughter, who had been braver by far than her mother.  _I won't lie back and take this.  I am not my mother—I am stronger than my mother_.  She met her dark eyes in the mirror, and then moved her gaze to the long locks of black hair that were writhing peaceably around her arms.  _I am strong enough to take the fate I want, and shape the world to my desires._

She stood, then, and dressed in the darkest gown she had, using the scraps of black ribbon she'd worn for Weatherby Swann to trim her clothing for her husband.  Then she went back to the mirror and watched as her hair coiled itself up on top of her head.  She reached up and stroked it, once, meditatively, before lowering her hand and picking up her bell necklace.  She paused, though, when she heard the silvery chimes—a noise as familiar to her as her own heartbeat.  She looked down at the necklace, which had graced her neck nearly every single day since her father had given it to her for her thirteenth birthday, idly stroking one of the tiny bells with her index finger as she remembered her father, and how much she had loved him, and how much she missed him, even now—feelings that she never wanted her own daughter to know.  Then she set the bells back down on the vanity table.  She wouldn't wear the necklace today; she didn't want it tainted by what she was intending to do.

Dressed and tidied as best she could be—nothing would hide the pallor of her face, or the puffy redness around her eyes which were both clear indications of prolonged weeping—Stella moved to fetch the silver knife she'd taken with her onto the _Flying Dutchman_ , and thence onto the _Endeavour_.  She'd need it today.  What she was thinking of doing was relatively simple, requiring next to nothing so far as preparations went—save for the silver knife.  She was grateful that she'd brought it along, and tucked it into her pocket.  She wouldn't need it until much later tonight, but it made her feel better to have it on her person—it reminded her that this was fleeting, and would pass, because she would use it to get the future she wanted, when all this would be a bad memory.

She paused again at the door, wondering if she was really hungry enough to venture out for breakfast.  She didn't feel ready to face the outside world yet; she was still far too raw.  Then again, when would she be ready?  A day from now?  A week from now?  A month?  Better to just do it now and get it over with.    Besides, if she got what she wanted, she wouldn't have to deal with any of it for much longer.

However, upon opening the door, she was greeted with the sight of Captain Groves hovering in the hallway. He stared at her for a moment, startled at her abrupt appearance.  Then he stepped forward and put his hands gently on her shoulders.  "Stella, I'm so very sorry," he said quietly.

Apparently she hadn't cried herself out just yet; Groves' sympathy, the gentleness of his voice, and the echoing sadness in his eyes made her burst into tears again.

Groves wrapped his arms around her and held her gently, rocking her back and forth and rubbing her back as though she were a child.  Stella wept into his coat, vaguely aware that Groves himself was breathing rather rapidly and the hands on her back were shaking—she also thought she felt a tear or two drop onto the top of her head.  Groves had loved James too, she realised; not at she'd loved him, of course, but the two of them were close friends, and Groves—Theodore—had to be grieving his loss, just as she was.  Which was likely the only reason the two of them were embracing and crying on each other in a corridor in full view of whoever should wander by.

"Are you all right?" Groves asked once they'd separated.  His eyes were slightly red, but he otherwise looked no less collected than usual—something, Stella was sure, could not be said for herself.

"Of course I'm not all right," Stella replied tiredly, with only a faint bite in what should've been an entirely sarcastic rejoinder.  "None of us are 'all right'.  For myself, it feels as though someone has ripped out my heart, my lungs, and the vast majority of my innards and left me to bleed out on the floor."

Groves blinked, and a shadow of his usual humour crossed his face.  "That was very... vivid, Mrs. Norrington," he remarked with a weak grin, before sobering.  "I just... I can't believe he's gone," he murmured, almost to himself.  "I'd only gotten him back a few months ago.  It doesn't seem right that he died now, when he had so much to live for."

Stella bit her lip so hard it bled to stop herself from bursting into tears again.  Mostly she managed, though several tears leaked from the corners of her eyes and made their way down her cheeks.  "I know," she agreed hoarsely.

"I thought he was dead after... well, after the _Dauntless_ went down," Groves went on, his voice sounding thick as though he had a lump rising in his throat.  "We heard it foundered, and less than a handful survived, and I thought he was dead. And then he came back, alive and well.  He always did that—came back when you'd given him up for lost.  I didn't think I'd ever see him again after he resigned his commission, but he came back again, and regained everything he lost, and he was happier than I'd seen him for a good long while..." he trailed off sadly.

Stella fought down a hitching sob in her chest at the memory of those early days in Port Royal, when she and James had just been best friends and Beckett only their distant patron. "Perhaps he'll surprise us again," she offered, thinking of the silver knife in her pocket.  "Perhaps Jones is lying—not hard to believe, that," she added bitterly, "and James is alive somewhere, trying to get back to us."

She didn't like the expression of deep pity that came over Groves' face at that, but bit her tongue.  If she had her way, James wouldn't be staying dead for very long, and she might as well lay the foundations for his return now.  Even if it meant putting up with the patronising, gentle way Groves agreed, "Perhaps," as though she was stupid or feeble or disagreeing with her might send her off into another crying jag.

Which, she allowed, was not entirely unlikely.  She was feeling particularly delicate at the moment, and small things (as had previously been demonstrated) could upset her fragile emotional control.

"Is there anything I can do for you, Mrs. Norrington?" Groves asked after a moment.

"Bring back the dead?" she asked with a bitter smile.  At Groves' compassionate look, she shook her head and answered more honestly.  "There is nothing, Theodore.  But thank you.  I..." she trailed off, feeling tears gather in her eyes again.  She swallowed thickly and forced them away.  "Thank you."

Groves nodded.  "I will miss him very much; he was one of my very dearest friends," he said softly, before bowing and turning to go.

"I know," Stella whispered.  A tear trailed down her cheek, but she ignored it, and slipped her hand into her pocket to wrap her fingers around the hilt of her silver knife.  _But if I'm strong enough and clever enough, Theodore Groves, we won't have to miss him for very long_ , she thought firmly.

She did not go topside to take up her duties regarding the direction of the winds; instead, she remained in her bunk and directed the winds as best she could from down there.  Her four midshipmen were constantly in and out of her cabin when they were unoccupied with other duties, and Stella had a feeling she'd frightened all of them when she'd started crying again when they tendered their condolences to her; the four youths clearly had no idea what to do with a weeping woman.

Stella would've chastised herself violently for such a loss of control had it not also served another purpose.  By assuming such a pathos-ridden role as the weeping widow, she was bringing many more sailors over to her side.  Those who hadn't joined the Greek Fire were nevertheless touched by her grief as the stories began to circulate around the ship, spread by her four lads and the sailors who saw her when they brought her meals or informed her of the ship's heading. (To avoid being tarred as a witch by the superstitious sailors, Stella had let it be known that she always wanted to know in which direction they were headed, due to her own curiosity.  The wrote it off as feminine eccentricities.  At least it served as an explanation as to why she always had to know the ship's heading without bringing anything supernatural into it.)

She was also visited, later that morning, by Will Turner.  Stella was sitting and staring blankly out the porthole, mired in extremely morbid thoughts with her sewing resting on her protruding belly, when Mr. MacDonald approached.  "Mrs. N?" the young man asked tentatively.  "Mr. Turner's here.  He wants to see you."

"Let him in," Stella said dully, without moving her eyes from the sky outside.  She didn't look back into the room until Will was seated on the bench beside her, at which point she did turn her head to meet his eyes.

Will thought she looked terrible, and he was so sorry for her that being close to him was like having a blanket soaked with pity thrown over her senses.  "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Norrington," he said quietly.

Stella bit her lip to keep from unloading some very undeserved spleen on Will Turner's head.  It wasn't his fault that James had decided that dying for Elizabeth Swann was a better choice than living for Stella Bell.  Besides, she needed Will on her side, and snarling at him would inspire no kind feelings.  "Thank you," was all she trusted herself to say.  At least she was able to get it out without crying.

"He was a good man," Will added awkwardly, after a moment.

"He was," Stella agreed.  Then, not wanted to talk any more about James with a man he hadn't liked, she changed the subject, moving away from her own emotions and into the court of reason, where she could scheme and plot and ignore her broken heart for at least a little while.  "Close your ears for a bit, Mr. MacDonald," she called, and the young man nodded and pointedly moved to the opposite side of the cabin.  Then she turned back to Will.  "We have to do something about Calypso."

"Such as...?" Will asked warily, as though he was afraid she would advocate Jones' course of action where the sea goddess was concerned.

"I don't believe for a single second that Jones will be able to murder her himself, nor countenance anyone else to do so, whatever he might say in the heat of a foul temper," Stella said matter-of-factly.  "Besides, I doubt Barbossa would put her or himself in a position where death would relive him of what he surely believes to be one of his greatest weapons against the armada. Which brings us to the real problem of this situation," she went on calmly.  "Whatever that puffed-up old popinjay believes, Calypso will not lift a single finger to save the Brethren from annihilation. In fact, she's far more likely to destroy the lot of them outright." Judging from the worried expression on Will's face, he didn't like the prospect any better than she did, though for doubtlessly very different reasons.  Will was likely thinking of Elizabeth and possibly Jack Sparrow as well; Stella was thinking that there was no use doing Beckett's work for him, since idle hands did the Devil's work and Beckett's hands were devilish enough as it was.  "We need to find a way to convince her otherwise."

"We could tell her the truth," Will offered, after a moment in thought.  Stella arched a brow curiously, and he elaborated,  "We could tell her it was Davy Jones who ordered her to be bound and provided the Brethren with the means to do so."

It was a profoundly simply idea.  Of course, when dealing with a very unpredictable sea goddess, simple was probably best; there was less chance for things to go wrong.  "That..." Stella mused, "might actually work.  Though I will own that I'm not entirely sure of how she'll react.  She might still try to destroy the Brethren."

"Or she might turn on the _Dutchman_ and the armada," Will retorted.

"Or she might just decide to sink the whole lot of us," Stella said dryly, reminding Will with a quick gesture that he was currently a part of that armada.  "That's the problem with deities: you can never accurately predict what they'll do."

"Are you speaking from experience?" Will inquired, raising his eyebrows sceptically.

"Someone else's experience," Stella admitted.  "I don't think we can count on Calypso to do anything beneficial to the cause.  The best we can hope for is that she won't destroy us all in a fit of pique."

"Perhaps she won't be released at all," Will offered hopefully.

"Do you really think it likely?" Stella asked flatly.  "She brought Barbossa and Jack Sparrow back from death for the sole purpose of engineering her own release.  Do you really think it at all likely that she will not be free of her bonds by the time this debacle is over?"

"No," Will sighed, rubbing his face tiredly.  "So what do we do?"

"Make what plans we can and hope for the best," Stella shrugged, wincing a bit at the bruises on her shoulders and back.  "Here," she said, handing Will the scrap of linen she'd been embroidering with a small black star.  "This is why we must keep Calypso from outright destroying either the armada or the Brethren."

"Your embroidery?"

Stella gave him a glare that was much less virulent than her usual, in the sense it could only have curdled milk and not stripped paint off the hull.   "This, Mr. Turner," she began curtly, tapping the black star, "is the symbol of a faction of the armada that is working against Beckett, called the Greek Fire.  To wear that star is to declare sympathy with the cause and membership in the Greek Fire."

Will watched her intently.  "Am I a member of this... Greek Fire?" he asked her softly.

"That's your choice," Stella replied evenly.  "Side with Beckett or not, that is your decision.  But can I trust you not to betray us?" she asked, with a bit of an edge in her voice.  "All we want is to go about our business.  The merchants want to return to commerce, and avoid a fight they desire no part in.  The navy want Beckett to respect the hierarchy and allow them to go about their business taking orders... orders from the Admiral, and not from some land-lubber aristocrat!" Stella went on, feeling the mention of James, no matter how obliquely, upset her fragile emotional equilibrium.  She went on, aware that her eyes were tearing up again and she was sounding a little hysterical, "And I just want him to leave me alone.  I want him to stop acting as though he has some right to me. I want him to stop beating me.  I want to stop being afraid every moment of every day.  Why won't he leave me alone?" she whimpered, and started crying again.

She buried her face in her hands and wept for what seemed like the hundredth time since last night.  When would she run out of tears?  Or was this onslaught of weeping something that would never stop so long as James was dead?

Will uncomfortably reached out and stroked her hair, then yelped and fell off the bench in shock when it moved on its own and curled around his wrist.  It was so comical that Stella had to laugh through her tears, and the injection of humour helped her weeping to taper off into faint sniffles.

She wiped her tears away with a handkerchief as Will recollected himself and sat back on the bench.  They sat in silence for a moment, as Stella's sobs tapered away into nothing and Will watched her (and her hair) with a conflicted expression on his handsome face.

Will was the one to break the silence. "Is there some place in particular I should be putting this star?" he eventually asked in resignation.

"Don't do me any favours," Stella snapped, though the sharpness in her voice was lessened by the fact that her nose was still stuffy from her latest bout of crying.

"It's not a favour," Will insisted.  He scratched his neck as he sought for words.  "I... sympathise with your goals—really, I do," he insisted, though Stella hadn't said anything otherwise.  She had a feeling Will was trying to convince himself of something, and stayed silent.  "I have no love for Beckett and I don't want to see him destroy the Brethren Court.  But to join a conspiracy dedicated to bringing him down less than a day after making a deal with him... well, it seems... dishonourable."

"Beckett has no honour, places no value on honour, and does not respect honour," Stella informed him bluntly.  "To him, there is only good business and bad business—good business being that which makes him the most profit in a given situation, no matter what deals he has or has not made previously and no matter who is hurt or killed in the process.  Best take any consideration of honour right out of your dealings with Beckett, Mr. Turner; it will do you absolutely no good."

"I know," Will sighed, scrubbing his hand across his face again.  "Really, I do.  I have no love for Beckett—especially if he killed Governor Swann.  Which is why I asked about the star."

"It was Mercer's hand who did the killing, but it was Beckett's will guiding the blade," Stella said softly.  "Wear the star somewhere inconspicuous.  Or, better yet, keep it in your pocket and only display it when necessary.  That's what your father does."

"My father has one of these?" Will asked, regarding the square of linen curiously.

"Yes.  I sewed it for him myself," Stella nodded.  "That is why we mustn't let Calypso destroy the Brethren.  With them around, Beckett's attention is divided—or at least, it will be, when we decide to strike," she mused.  She'd have to talk with Groves about it; with James... with James dead, Groves was now the nominal leader of the Greek Fire, and it would be up to him to decide when to... mutiny, she supposed the word was, although it was such a harsh term.  She only hoped Groves would be willing to listen to any advice she might offer.  "If she removes them from the board, Beckett will be able to focus all his attention on us, and that... is not ideal, for obvious reasons."

"I don't see what either of us can do about it, since Calypso's on the _Pearl_ and we're here," Will remarked frankly.

"Oh ye of little faith," Stella chided him gently.  "Your stay on the _Endeavour_ will be quite brief, Mr. Turner.  You'll be back with your compatriots soon enough—and in a position to tell Calypso... or Tia Dalma, as we know her... of Jones' perfidy, and encourage her to spread her displeasure around with a liberal hand, and not only vent her rage on the Brethren.  I can only hope it will be enough," she whispered.

It was so strange to think of Tia—whom she'd known for years—as Calypso, and realise that, while she understood Tia to some extent, the minute Tia shed her mortal flesh she would be something completely different, beyond Stella's ken and understanding.  She was going to lose a friend, Stella realised.  At the end of this, no matter what did or did not happen, no matter what Stella did or did not manage to do, Tia was not going to be Tia anymore, and Stella was going to lose one of her very dearest friends.

_No matter what, I'll be grieving for someone_ , Stella thought unhappily.  _However this ends, I will still lose a friend.  There is no possibility for a 'happily ever after' wherein everyone sails happily off into the sunset.  Then again,_ she scolded herself wryly, _did you really expect one?_

Will blinked.  "Tia Dalma?"

Stella sighed.

* * *

 

After Will had left, Mr. MacDonald had returned to the room, followed by Mr. Clark.  Stella called them over and informed them, "I have need of a live rat."

"A live rat?" Mr. Clark repeated incredulously.  "Whatever for?"

"Better that you don't ask," Stella replied seriously.  "But I do need one—more than one, if you can manage."

Misters Clark and MacDonald shared a look, and then Clark shrugged.  "Don't look at me, Rob; I've no idea how to catch a rat," he said.

"Me either," MacDonald admitted.

"Which is why you delegate, my dears," Stella interrupted gently.  "Is there anyone on board who does know how to catch rats, or must do so as part of his duties?"  The two young men looked at each other again, then turned back to her and shrugged, nearly in unison.  "Then I'll have to do it myself, I suppose."

"Mrs. N..." Mr. Clark began, but stopped at a sharp gesture from Stella.

"This is something I must do," she informed them firmly.  "And I will do it alone, if you won't help me."

Both boys shifted uncomfortably, and Stella could discern their thoughts well enough.  They thought her grief for her dead husband had driven her a bit batty, and were more than a little disconcerted by her extremely odd request.  But they weren't willing to let her crawl around in the bilges searching for rats, either.

Mr. MacDonald finally sighed and gave in.  "All right, Mrs. N.  We'll see what we can do about the rats."

"Thank you," Stella said, her gratitude clear in her voice.  She kissed each boy on his left cheek, which made Mr. Clark blush and Mr. MacDonald look wistful, and then they left to see about the rats.

It wasn't until after supper that her midshipmen returned, empty-handed save for the burlap sacks (also empty) that Mr. Parker was carrying. "We couldn't get you any rats, Mrs. N, but we did get you some sacks to put the rats we'll catch in, and some tack to lure them with," he explained, hefting the empty bags.

"Why do you need rats, anyway?" Mr. Sewall wondered.

"It's complicated," Stella demurred.   "Thank you for getting these."

"Are we going now, or later?" Mr. Clark asked innocently.

"I beg your pardon?" Stella inquired.

"Are we going to catch the rats now, or later?" Mr. Clark elaborated.

"You are going to bring us along, right, Mrs. N?" Mr. MacDonald asked, turning his big brown eyes on her in an entreating expression.

Stella was slightly conflicted.  It would be easier to get the sacrifices she needed if she had four extra people helping her.  Yet she didn't want these boys to have any part in what she was going to attempt tonight at midnight.  Nor did she exactly want to reveal herself as a witch—not that any of them would be frightened or desirous of burning her at the stake as far as she knew, of course, but Mr. Sewall was not the most discreet young man aboard.  It was what made him valuable when there were things she wanted known about the ship, but which would make him a rather terrible liability if there was something—like her powers—that she wanted to remain hidden.

"I'm sure you have better things to do tonight than catch rats down in the bilges," Stella tried to demur.

All four of them shook their heads.  "We want to help you," Mr. Clark said earnestly.

She looked at the four of them in turn, measuring and weighing, judging their nerve and their loyalty and their ability to stay quiet if needful.  She'd likely have to speak rather sternly to Mr. Sewall about discretion, but for the most part these four twelve- and thirteen-year-olds could be trusted.  Besides, she had a strong feeling that they needed to know and adjust and contemplate soon, because soon they were going to have their faces rubbed in it.  It would be far less traumatising an introduction into the supernatural if she revealed it to them than if they were thrown into the proverbial sea to sink or swim as they would.

That in mind, Stella smiled at the four young men.  Apparently something in her expression made them nervous, since Mr. Clark shifted on his feet and Mr. Parker scratched the back of his neck nervously.  "Tell me, my dear lads, have you ever read _Hamlet_?" she inquired lightly, waddling over to Mr. Parker, who was still clutching the burlap sacks.

All four shook their heads, although Mr. Parker added, "Shakespeare, isn't it?"

"It is indeed Shakespeare, Mr. Parker, and one of the finest works of the English language," Stella replied pedantically.  "In the play, there is a line that goes thusly: 'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'  I must say, it rather loses something when I must explain it after," she added dryly.  All four boys looked heartily confused, so Stella decided that a practical demonstration would be best.

She released her tight control on her hair and let the majority of it go where it would while she used several tendrils to pluck the empty bags from Mr. Parker's suddenly nerveless hands.

Pandemonium ensued.

It took nearly an hour, several more demonstrations by Stella, a few harsh words for Mr. Sewall about silence, but finally calm was restored.  Misters Parker and Sewall, being from higher-class Anglican households, thought that Stella's powers were the most amazing things they'd ever seen, since any previous belief in witchcraft or sorcery had been dismissed as childish fantasy; Mr. MacDonald, coming from a Gaelic-and-trying-to-hide-it family, was shocked but respectful, due to the history of wise-women in that culture; and Mr. Clark, the descendant of Puritans, was terrified with a side of conflict, since his ancestors used to have a go at burning, hanging, and otherwise killing off Stella's ancestors, but he was calming down since Mrs. N assured him that this wasn't witchcraft per se so much as inherent magic, and that she'd never, ever made a pact with the devil and had no intentions of doing so in the future.

"Will this make catching the rats easier?" Mr. Sewall wondered.  "Is there some kind of... rat-catching spell you can do?"

"It doesn't really work like that," Stella replied, shaking her head.

"Why do you need the rats?" Mr. Clark insisted.

"As a focus," Stella replied, trying not to lie outright.  She never intended to tell anyone—save perhaps James—just what depths she was sinking to in her crusade to bring back her husband, especially not four youths barely out of boyhood.  They didn't need to know, and she admitted to herself that she didn't want them to think any less of her, either.  "It would be better to have a dog, a cat, a bird, and a rat, but we're on a ship, and all we have are rats.  I will make do."

"Are you going to kill them?" Mr. Clark asked timidly.

Stella looked at him levelly.  He was little more than a child, was Allen Clark, with sun-streaked brown hair, hazel-green eyes, and the kind of face that was neither particularly handsome nor particularly displeasing.  He was a good lad, and could grow into a kind man.  But now, he was frightened.  He was frightened of her powers, of this new world she was showing him, and afraid that she was imperilling her immortal soul.  He was afraid for her, but not necessarily of her, because he still thought she was a good woman, the kind of mother he would've liked to have had himself.

She didn't want him to think ill of her.  So she lied to him.

"No."

They went down to the bilges shortly thereafter; it was the most ideal place for the ritual.  It was best to have a connection with at least one of the elements when doing this; Stella would've preferred to be on deck surrounded by her element—air—but that was a little too conspicuous for her purposes.  So she chose to go down to one of the lowest parts of the ship and act while surrounded by water.

Misters Parker and Sewall were keen to see more magic, so Stella conjured a little witchlight that hovered near her shoulder and illuminated the space around them with a pallid, blue-tinged glow a little brighter than moonlight.  And while there wasn't an actual rat-catching spell, Stella did use her powers to grab and hold the rats in place while one of the boys scooped the rodent up into a sack.

It took them about three hours to get seven rats, which was just enough, and left Stella about an hour until midnight, when she would begin the ritual—the witching hour, a time of transition, and the best time for the kind of magic she was going to be doing.  Of course, it took nearly half that hour to convince her midshipmen to leave her alone in the bilges to do it.  Eventually, she had to lie to them again and tell them that, for her concentration, she'd best do it alone, and she'd summon them down when she was finished.  Mostly, they were disappointed that they didn't get to see more magic, but retired above decks.

That was good.  She didn't want anyone to witness what she was going to do.

Stella knelt down and pulled her silver knife out of her pocket.  She laid the blade on the floor before her, perpendicular to her body, and grasped the squirming sacks of rats in her other hand.  Stella methodically took the rats out of the bags and snapped their necks, laying their tiny little corpses down in a line parallel to the silver knife.  The only sounds were the scrabbling and squeaking of the rats, the sharp cracks of their breaking bones, and Stella's harsh whisper as she chanted, calling out for the old gods and the Fates to hear and hearken to her.

This was very, very black magic—anything that demanded such a sacrifice, of blood or lives or souls, was definitely dark.  Anyone could perform such rituals, even if they had no magical talents; all that was needed was the knowledge of what to do, what to say, and what to offer to get what you wanted.  It was all a matter of paying the price demanded for such black magic.  Usually, Stella didn't touch the stuff—especially not something as dark and dangerous and costly as what she was about to do—but these were extenuating circumstances.  She'd feel bad about it later, when she was safe with James.

She wanted him back, and this ritual would hopefully do that for her.  It wasn't going to bring him back to life—Stella was not now nor had ever been strong enough for that, and she'd have needed his body anyway.  But she was going to look for a future when someone else did.  That was what she was doing.  She was going into the River—an even deeper, darker part of the River than the place she went to when she wanted knowledge, which could only be accessed through blood (hence the rats)—and using the sacrifice of a living soul to purchase the future she wanted, if her plea and the soul she offered were accepted by the Fates.

(The shadowy presences that stood guard over the dark part of the River probably weren't the actual Fates.  Stella and her foremothers had theorised and debated and even asked Tia, who had just grinned at them and said nothing, and in the end the grimoire stated that the Fates kept watch over the dark part of the River.  Stella herself figured they were an aspect of the Fates but not actually the Fates because Fate was supposedly immutable... Either way, the presence would either accept the soul she offered and return her husband to her, or they would not, in which case Stella would have to conjure up a backup plan.  She wasn't going to give up.)

She snapped the neck of the last rat and laid it down in the line, and then took up the silver knife and dragged the tip of the silver knife across the lifeline of her left palm.  Blood welled, and she kept it cupped in her hand as she dragged the knife through the corpses of the rats, and dribbled her lifeblood behind the knife, tying them all together with a string of her own blood in the wake of a pure silver knife as she finished her chanted entreaty to the Fates and the gods and The God and whoever else would listen to her.  The blood sacrifice opened a rift into the darker side of the River—Stella could feel it, like a chilly draft blowing through the casement—and she closed her eyes and slipped through.

There were three souls in the River that night.  There was Stella, and there was Stella's unborn daughter, and then there was the Kraken spirit which had latched onto Stella in the hurricane and never let go.  And looming near the three of them (though not in any sense of proximity, since space didn't quite work the same way inside the River) was another being, which lingered at the edges of Stella's awareness.  It might've been one being, or three, or three aspects of one being.  It was what Stella's family called the Fates.  But it said nothing and did nothing as Stella cried to the darkness, _I want my husband back!  I beg you, give me a future wherein he returns to me alive and unharmed and we grow old together, surrounded by our children.  Give me a future where he is by my side for the rest of my life, however long that may be._

The shadowy presences loomed closer, seeming to wonder which soul would purchase this future.  There were three choices, after all.  There was Stella herself, gleaming white in the darkness; there was the baby, shining like a tiny star in Stella's midsection; and there was the Kraken, wrapped around Stella's head like a crown made of a luminous, sickly-green seaweed.  Three souls in one body—which was reason Stella had chosen this particular way of getting her husband back.  When you sought to petition the fates for power or influence or gifts or a certain future or the life of a loved one, you could only ever offer up the souls in your own body; an unwilling sacrifice of someone else wouldn't work.  However, once you sold your own soul, you didn't have long to live in the soulless shell without more black magic rituals.  Stella wasn't willing to go quite that far, so it was fortunate that she had three souls in her body, one of which was held less dear than the others.

Stella reached up, and pulled the Kraken away from her head, offering it up as the price she would pay for the life of her husband in the future she wanted.

There was a long moment, wherein she wasn't sure if her offering was accepted. It wasn't unheard of for such entreaties to be turned down, if there was a destiny or some such fate in the way of the chosen future.  For example, had Stella sought to avoid Will Turner's nameless fate with this ritual, she would fail; no offering could subvert a destiny, and the Fates would turn her down.  It was more like there was an umbrella of possibilities, and certain things lay outside its radius.  Whether or not a future where James was alive was outside the umbrella was something Stella didn't know.

But the moment passed, and the Kraken vanished, pulled from her hair and enveloped in an almost tender way by shadowy forms that reminded Stella of arms.  Offering accepted; future bought.  James would come back to her, sooner or later—she had no idea how, but the Fates kept their promises.  James was going to come back, alive and well, and she wouldn't have to endure widowhood for more than a few weeks.

She left the darkness of River, and opened her eyes into the darkness of the bilges.  Her hair was hanging down around her arms, still and empty for the first time in six months; without the Kraken animating it, the style Stella had coaxed it into fell apart, leaving her dark locks to fall free.  _Damn_ , she thought.  _Now I'm going to have to do my own hair in the mornings_.  The cut she'd made with the silver knife along her lifeline had healed as well, leaving behind a thin, silvery scar—a tangible sign of the bargain she'd made.

She picked up the silver knife, wiped it with a handkerchief to get the blood off, re-sheathed it, and tucked it back into her pocket.  Then she collected the seven rat corpses into a pile and set them on fire with a bright-burning white witchfire that would immolate the rats without burning the ship, destroying the evidence of what she'd been doing.  And while she did these things, she cried.

It seemed like she'd spent the last day doing nothing but weeping.  But there was so much to weep for.

Stella had gotten used to—even become fond of—the Kraken in her hair, especially since she could control it.  And though the Kraken had tried to kill her and her husband and sink the entire _Endeavour_ , she still recalled its—her, she supposed, since the Kraken was female—childlike pain and incomprehension as Davy Jones turned on her, and her fear as she died, clinging to Stella as the only person around to give succour.  And now Stella had just torn her away from her home and bartered her very soul, the last remnant of Kraken on the mortal plane, away in a black magic ritual to bring back the dead.

She felt soiled and sullied and... well, like she truly, entirely belonged down here in the bilges with the filth of mankind.

_Oh James, forgive me_ , she cried inwardly, even as she cried outwardly as well.  _I know I've done something horrible.  I'm weak—I didn't want to live without you, and so I did something reprehensible to bring you back.  I'm sorry, I'm sorry... I'm a selfish coward, I know.  But I'll make up for it, I swear.  I'll spend the rest of my life atoning if you'll only stay with me while I do it._

Stella hunched into a miserable little ball and cried until her shoulders ached from the force of her sobs.  She loathed herself violently for resorting to black magic, but couldn't regret the cause for which she'd done it, which made her hate herself even more.

"Never again," she swore hoarsely as her tears trailed off, unsure of who she was talking to, but feeling as though it ought to be said.  "I will never, ever perform black magic again.  I'll be better, I promise."

Once she'd stopped quaking from the aftermath of such intense crying, Stella sent her voice on the wind to summon her midshipmen back to her.  Yawning and rumpled, the boys helped her back up to her cabin.  She sent them off to bed immediately afterwards, despite pleas to tell them more about what she'd just done.  Then she spent the next half-hour trying to get out of her clothing—a much harder task, given that she was now bereft of her Kraken-possessed hair, which had made doing and undoing laces and buttons much easier.  The reminder of the Kraken's absence brought about another outpouring of sadness, and Stella went to her bunk and cried herself to sleep for the second night in a row.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, she slept late the next morning, not waking until the sun was already high in the sky.  Her head was pounding and her body was aching—especially her lower back—and her mood was not improved by the increased difficulty of getting dressed and arranging her hair and even using the chamberpot without her Kraken-hair to assist her. Thus, when a summons came from Lord Beckett, Stella was in an extremely surly temper.

Mr. Sewall helped her up to Beckett's stateroom, where—as usual—Beckett kept her waiting as he finished up whatever bureaucratic paperwork he considered more important than her.

Finally, he set his quill aside.  "You weren't on deck yesterday," Beckett remarked.

"I propelled the ship from my cabin," Stella replied stonily.  She was doing it now, in fact—shifting the breezes to propel the ship.  It was easier to do it now that the Kraken was gone from her hair; she'd never really noticed how the aquatic spirit had inhibited her affinity with the sky until it was gone.  And though she missed it and the way it made certain tasks easier (and felt extremely guilty for the sacrifice), she was happy to have an easier time with the winds again.  She still had to concentrate a little harder than usual, due to emotional and physical exhaustion, but it was easier in a way it hadn't been for months.  "I felt unequal to company."

Beckett pressed his fingertips to the desk.  "I did not give you permission to remain below," he remarked coolly.

"I was not aware I needed it," Stella sneered in return.  "Had I required permission from anyone, it would be... my husband," she went on, barely pausing at the reminder of James.  It still hurt to think that he was dead, but she had faith that he would be returning to her soon enough.  Widowhood was temporary, and she just had to endure until it ended.

"Your husband is dead," Beckett informed her bluntly.

"Then I am a widow and may do as I will," Stella retorted.

"Your widowhood will be brief," Beckett announced.

Stella narrowed her eyes at him—did he know what she'd done in the bilges last night?  Even if he did know the ritual performed last night, he couldn't possibly know what boon she requested.  Then again, she allowed, what else would she ask for?  But how had he known?

It turned out he didn't, and that he was being arrogant.  "Once we finish with the Brethren Court, I will take you back to London.  We'll be married there, from my mother's house, once a suitable amount of time has passed," Beckett went on lightly, turning back to his papers as though he was discussing the type of tea they would drink later that afternoon, and not the future state of matrimony between two people who utterly loathed each other.

"No, we will not," Stella replied icily.

That brought Beckett up short, and he glanced up from his papers sharply.  He reached out for his cane, his fingers lingering threateningly on the shaft of the wood, as he said warningly, "Excuse me?"

"I will not marry you," Stella enunciated clearly.

"Have you forgotten the terms of our agreement?" Beckett inquired, his voice dangerously low.

"Indeed, I have not.  In fact, I might recall them better than you yourself do," Stella replied snidely.  "I agreed to supply favourable winds to your armada, which eventually expanded to include moving hurricanes and monitoring Davy Jones.  That was all.  There was absolutely nothing in our agreement that states or implies that you have any right to me at all in a private capacity.  In short, Lord Beckett, you have no say at all in whom I marry—and I will marry no one but James Norrington," she said firmly.  "If that means I remain a widow for the rest of my life, so be it.  But you have absolutely no right to me as a woman, and I refuse to allow you to dictate the terms of my future life.  Besides," she added, deciding that if she was going to anger Beckett by standing up to him she might as well do it in a grand fashion, "bringing your mother a magical daughter-in-law won't make her respect you or love you any better than she does now.  I won't throw my life, myself, and my daughter away on your futile desire to gain your mother's approval."

Beckett's face twisted with anger, and he gripped the cane tightly as he stood abruptly, moving to stand and strike her.  But Stella wasn't afraid anymore.  One of the worst things that could've possibly happened to her already had. Besides, Beckett had apparently forgotten that she was only submitting to his abuse to keep safe her husband.  Well, her husband was now dead and far beyond Beckett's power, so there was no further reason for her to lie down and let him hurt her.

If Beckett wanted to hit her, Stella was going to hit back.  The days of being meek and passive were over.

Beckett struck swiftly, coming around the desk and swinging the cane back to hit her shoulder, but Stella moved swifter still.  She used her powers to wrench the cane from Beckett's hands and send it flying through the air to embed itself in the bulkhead behind her.  Beckett himself was sent flying through the air and slammed into the opposite wall, held there, flat on his back, through the sheer force of Stella's rage.

"No more," she snarled, approaching the man slowly, her hands held before her like claws, pushing the air towards the man before her to keep him pinned against the bulkhead.  "Do you understand, Cutler Beckett?  No more.  I let you treat me like a dog to protect someone I loved, and it was all for nothing.  He's still dead.  And thus I have no reason to lie back and let you hurt me any longer now that you don't hold a knife on my husband.  Understand?" she hissed.  "You've lost your leverage.  You have nothing you can use to make me obey.  Touch me again and you won't like what happens."

"I could have you thrown off the ship," Beckett gasped out, speaking through the pressure which kept him pinned against the wall.

"Try it," Stella invited, grinning savagely.  "How will you explain to the crew that you're having a pregnant widow thrown off the ship because she would no longer let you beat her?  You'd have a mutiny on your hands before I hit the water.  Besides, I'm far too valuable to you, especially at this stage of your enterprise."

Beckett's blue eyes were filled with utter loathing and every line of his body was taut with impotent rage.  Conversely, Stella felt freer and lighter than she had for moths, and there was a massive, slightly unhinged smile on her face.  She'd won—they both knew it.  Beckett had nothing left with which to compel her obedience (especially with Mercer so far away on the _Dutchman_ ) and she had much more power at her command.  Stella had won.

Flush with victory, Stella stepped back and let Beckett fall away from the wall.  The abruptness of the gesture made the man stagger and lean back against the same bulkhead he'd just been pinned to.  He glared virulently at her, but Stella just smiled in return.  There was nothing Beckett could do to her now; it seemed there was something indeed to be said for hitting rock-bottom.  The only way to go, after all, was up.

She gave him a mocking nod and turned to go, but his voice, shaking with fury, made her pause.  "Enjoy your power while you can, bitch.  As soon as you whelp that brat of yours, I'll have you back under my yoke so fast you won't know what hit you," Beckett spat.

Stella snorted—a very unladylike sound, but she had Beckett had gone far beyond manners by this point.  "You're welcome to try," she replied calmly.  "But I think you'll have other things on your mind."  She turned, then, and met Beckett's eyes, which were suddenly wary.  She had seen much in the River last night, most of which had been forgotten once she was back in her body; however, one thing remained with her, and it was one of the only sources of joy left to her at the moment.  "The day the _Flying Dutchman_ escapes your control is the day you die, Cutler Beckett," she prophesized with a sharp-edged smile.  "You will see all that you worked for slip through your fingers, and you will be slain by one whom you've wronged.  Which hardly narrows it down, really; I daresay you've wronged thousands of people.  Who knows?  It might even be me who kills you," she added maliciously.  "But I will be waiting for that day with great eagerness.  The clock has started.  Tick-tock, Cutler," she laughed.  "Tick-tock."

With that, Stella turned to leave, without bothering to ask permission.  She was done asking Beckett for anything.  She left him leaning against the bulkhead, staring after her with wide, frightened blue eyes. And when she walked out of the stateroom, her head was held high.

 


	42. Stella Piratae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which James Norrington meets the Brethren Court.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real life is rubbish, sometimes. But I remember this chapter was posted in fall of 2010, since that's when I finally got a job again.
> 
>  
> 
> _A/N: Moving on, here.  Sorry this took a while, but I started a new job, and it takes me anywhere from two to four hours to get there and back by bus each way, so I didn't have a lot of free time (most of which I really wanted to spend either eating or sleeping, since my job left me little time for either), even beyond the fact that there were two weeks of pretty intensive training which ate all my days.  Things'll slow down a bit, though, now that the store is actually open, and hopefully I'll have more time for writing.  At the very least, this chapter is rather lengthy, so hopefully that makes up for it.  But expect future updates to be on a more monthly schedule.  Real life calls, after all, and I must answer._

 

James Norrington, despite popular belief, was not dead.

He came quite close, of course; had Elizabeth not noticed that he'd been flung off the _Dutchman_ , and swum back to rescue him, he would've drowned.  He also almost wished he was dead, considering he spent the rest of the night alternatively throwing up seawater and being shaken awake every hour or so to make sure the wound on his head hadn't killed him.  He woke the next morning with a headache that felt like it could've slain a lesser man—especially when he moved.  He hauled himself out of his bunk, cursing Bill Turner every step of the way, noticing that he was dressed only in a shirt and breeches, both of which were caked with salt, with a bandage tied tightly around his head.

He had no idea where he was.  On the _Empress_ , he assumed, given the strangeness and complete unfamiliarity with his surroundings; where on the Empress was another matter entirely.  Captain's cabin, perhaps, given the lushness of the fabrics around him?  But where on the ship was the captain's cabin located... and where was the nearest head? 

"James?"

He startled violently at the familiar voice, then hissed as the movement made his head pound.  "Elizabeth?" he asked, squinting about the darkened cabin for a sign of her.  She stood up from a pile of cushions to his left, and he relaxed.  "Where am I?"

"You're on the _Empress_ ," Elizabeth replied soothingly, coming over.  "In the captain's quarters."  Well, he'd been right, then.  "Sit down, and let me check your head."

"Actually, Elizabeth..."

In the end, she showed him to a chamber pot and ducked out of the cabin while he relieved himself.  Then she returned with more bandages and a bowl of steaming water, and James submitted to her care while making an inventory of himself.  No sword, no pistol; he was completely unarmed.  No shoes, no waistcoat, no coat, no hat, and no wig.  He had a pounding headache, a throbbing head wound, and a general low-grade ache in the rest of his body; otherwise, he was healthy.  And he was alive, which was not to be sneezed at.

"I think you'll be fine," was Elizabeth's eventual pronunciation.  "I'll have the doctor check you over later... he doesn't speak any English, though, so I'll have to have someone else explain what he thinks best."

"I'm sure I'll pull through," James replied dryly.  "Where are the rest of my clothes?  I clearly recall being more dressed than this when I was summarily thrown off the _Flying Dutchman_ by your father-in-law."

Elizabeth smiled, but there was sadness in her face—at the thought of his pain?  Or, more likely, the thought of Will Turner's absence. "They're drying up on deck.  Your hat and your wig were lost, though," she told him apologetically.

"What's a wig and a hat to my life?" James dismissed.  Though the loss of the wig was positively symbolic.  When he'd first fallen from grace, after the _Dauntless_ catastrophe, he'd kept his wig with him on Tortuga.  It had gotten progressively dirtier and more unkempt, despite his and Stella's best efforts, until it had finally been lost on the _Black Pearl_.  And he'd never accepted his fall, never stopped trying to regain what he thought was his honour through any means possible.  Like the wig, he clung to the idea he had in his mind no matter how dirty or worn it got.  Whereas now he was seeing clearly, and he'd just lost the wig wholesale, like he'd shed his illusions wholesale.

Or something.  Stella was better at finding and making metaphors out of the occurrences of everyday life than he was.

Stella.  James frowned slightly as Elizabeth re-bandaged his head (Bill Turner had clocked him good, and opened a three inch gash on his forehead).  What would happen to her now?  Did Mercer know that he had released the prisoners?  Or did they think Bill Turner had released them, and the Admiral was killed trying to stop him?  Was Stella going to pay for his disobedience?  Did she know he was still alive, or did she think he was dead?

James cursed Bill Turner again, wishing the man hadn't thrown him off the _Dutchman_.  He could've had Stella safe and away by now if his plans hadn't been ruined by another thick-headed Turner.

"There," Elizabeth said, tying the bandage off.  As she sat back she noticed the thunderous expression on his face, and tilted her head curiously.  "What is it?"

"Turner," he grumbled.  "Yet again, a Turner has ruined my life.  I had a plan—which did not include any head injuries or impromptu swims—and he destroyed it."  He gently scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed.  "And now the entire fleet will either thinks I'm a traitor or dead... or possibly a dead traitor. Beckett's going to make Stella pay for my actions, and I'm not there to protect her."  He sighed again, in aggravation.  "I was going to take the heart, take control of the _Dutchman_ , and work against Beckett.  And now... now I'm stuck on a pirate ship with nothing, and my wife might think I'm dead."  It was possible that Stella had gotten some supernatural tip to inform her that he was still alive; it was also possible that she hadn't, and that she was out there somewhere believing he was dead.

It hurt him to think of how much pain she'd be in, were that the case.

"You can still work against Beckett," Elizabeth offered quietly.

"With pirates," James replied flatly.  "Pirates whom, in other circumstances, I would have no compunctions annihilating."

"Then why did you help me?" Elizabeth demanded in return.  "Why choose the pirates' side?"

"I didn't choose the pirates' side," James replied evenly.  "I chose the side contrary to Beckett.  I could no longer in good conscience serve a man who would cold-bloodedly murder..." he trailed off as Elizabeth flinched and looked away.  "Stella knew," he said suddenly, breaking the silence that had fallen between them.  "She knew, and Beckett kept us apart so she could never tell me.  I haven't spoken to her, unmonitored, for more than ten minutes, in weeks.  I didn't believe Beckett outright, Elizabeth, you have to know that," he insisted.  "I just... I trusted that Stella would tell me if anything was amiss, and I didn't realise that we were being put in a position where she couldn't tell me anything.  If I'd known... well, I would've... mutinied long before now.  Does it count as mutiny if I'm the Admiral?" he wondered idly.

"I think Beckett might count it as mutiny," Elizabeth allowed.  She paused, and then asked delicately, "How would... what is she, James?"

James gave her a chilly look.  "She's my wife," he replied curtly.

"When we were sailing to Singapore, the ghost of a woman appeared in the captain's cabin.  Everyone knew her but me, and she... said some very harsh things about my father," Elizabeth said slowly.  "Her hair moved like the tentacles of a squid, and it was black."

"That was likely Stella," James confirmed.

"Will said she was a witch."

"Stella says that is an appropriate term for those who lack imagination.  I'm not surprised that's how Turner refers to her," James remarked dryly.

"What would you call her?" Elizabeth asked, giving him a flat look for the dig at Will.

"I'd call her my wife."

That made Elizabeth smile.  "You must love her very much."

James shrugged a little and opened his mouth to demur.  It had become habit by now, but then he stopped, suddenly.  Whenever he avoided talking about his feelings for Stella, it was Elizabeth's picture he held in his mind's eye, and the memory of loving her prominent in his memory.  But Elizabeth was right before him right now, and he knew that he was no longer in love with her.

Epiphany began to dawn slowly.  It wasn't Elizabeth whom he wished to speak to whenever he wanted advice or comfort or a distraction.  It wasn't Elizabeth he had so desperately wanted to comfort and be comforted by.  It wasn't Elizabeth whose voice he heard in his mind.  It wasn't Elizabeth's safety that had been the most important factor in his decision—for Stella, he would've left Elizabeth to the wolves.  For Stella.  It was Stella who was at the centre of his life now... and the centre of his heart.  It was Stella's smile he recalled when he longed for female company—her sly smile, her sleek hair, her dark eyes, her soft touch.  It was Stella he thought of with every major decision.  _Would Stella like it?  Would Stella approve?  What would Stella say?_   It was Stella he wanted to return to when the day was done.  It was Stella he imagined beside him when he was old and grey.  And it was Stella who was the integral part of his life, the one person whom he couldn't imagine living without.  When she hurt, he hurt; when she laughed, he laughed.  What was all that, but love?

"I do love her," James breathed.  He looked up at Elizabeth with wide green eyes, shining with the glory of this new revelation.  He was no longer tormented and embittered by unrequited love.  No, this time the woman he loved, loved him in return, and she was everything he could've ever wanted in a wife.  She was honourable and compassionate (in her own, rather brusque, way) and clever and witty; she understood him, right down to his bones, and she loved him.  Even though he'd done little to deserve it, and hadn't appreciated the treasure Stella had given him, she loved him with her whole heart.  He was an idiot not to have realised that he'd loved her in return—for what was love but friendship set on fire?—but he was past that now.  His eyes were open, and he saw that he did love Stella in just about every single way it was possible for a man to love a woman.  And when he next saw her, he intended to let her know.  "I do love her, very much."

Elizabeth smiled at him, with real happiness in her dark eyes—which were warm and dark brown, not black and sharp like Stella's.  "I'm glad," she said earnestly.  "I never wanted to hurt you—you were always one of the very best men I knew—and I wish you every happiness."

"Thank you," James replied quietly, touched by her good wishes.  "I have every confidence that we shall be very happy with each other... provided I ever get back to her."  Which was, in his opinion, the real problem.  They were sailing for Shipwreck Cove and a massing of pirates from all over the world.  Whereas he had once been known as the Scourge of Piracy, and was the Admiral of the armada intending to destroy the Brethren Court.  He didn't think the pirates were going to be particularly welcoming.

"You will," Elizabeth replied with all the assurance of a new captain.

"Will I?  I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if the Brethren Court hangs me outright," James said glumly.

"I would.  You're in my entourage, and I won't let anyone hang you," Elizabeth assured him.  "Besides, it would be daft of them to put paid to such a valuable source of information."  At James' sharp look, she shrugged and went on, "Well, you said you wanted to work against Beckett."

James immediate reaction was revulsion—he didn't want to work with pirates; he was sworn to wipe them out!  But then rationality asserted itself (and it sounded a rather lot like Stella).  Did he truly have any choice?  If he wanted to topple Beckett, the pirates would be useful, and he would have to work with them somehow if he wanted to get back to his family.  Besides, he could always return to fight them later if he survived Beckett, and if Beckett's attention was divided between two enemies, they might have a better chance of defeating him...

He let that thought percolate in his head as the Chinese doctor and Elizabeth's first mate entered the cabin.  They inspected James' head and the way his eyes moved, then jabbered at each other in Chinese for a while, before Tai Huang informed Elizabeth that James had a blow to the head but was otherwise all right.  Which wasn't anything they didn't already know.  The doctor—a small Chinese man with a wispy moustache—brewed him some tea and hovered over him while he choked down the bitter brew.  Then they left.

"One of these days, you'll have to tell me how you ended up as captain of a Chinese ship," James remarked.

"You'll have to tell me how you ended up marrying a witch," Elizabeth retorted, raising a brow.

That made him smirk.  "I also ought to tell you about a naval conspiracy against Beckett, which may be some use in our fight against him..."

Thus, James and Elizabeth spend the rest of the day talking and planning about ways in which the Greek Fire might be activated in concert with the Brethren, should they choose to fight, or put to use if they didn't.  Elizabeth started looking at him much more favourably once it was revealed that he was the leader of a conspiracy against Beckett, and she immediately sent for his coat so she could see the black star for herself.  Of course, once she'd seen the star, she'd noticed all the other embroidery, and the discussion had veered left into Stella territory.  Elizabeth wanted to know more about her, but James remained circumspect.  Having previously underestimated how valuable a commodity she was to sailors, he'd decided to err on the side of discretion in regards to his wife's talents.  So he said little about her ability to direct the winds, and talked more about her shrewdness, her instincts, her Kraken-infested hair, her love for their unborn daughter—which was interrupted by Elizabeth's sincere congratulations regarding his impending fatherhood—and how amusing he found her dislike for Elizabeth herself.

"I don't much like her either," Elizabeth grumbled, crossing her arms across her chest.

"You've never met her," James noted.

"And she's never met me," Elizabeth retorted, slightly petulant.

James wondered what it would be like if these two titans should ever meet; it wasn't outside the realm of possibility, given how closely their lives were all beginning to circle.  What would happen if they found themselves on the same ship?  Two strong women, who'd never met, and disliked each other sight unseen.  Perhaps it would be like Elizabeth I and Mary Queen of Scots, and only one would emerge alive (and personally, James would bet on Stella in that kind of circumstance).  Or—and he rather hoped this would be the case, though he didn't think it likely—they'd see how much they had in common, and at least call a truce.  Especially since Stella no longer had to be uncertain of her place in James' affections as compared to Elizabeth's.

"Yes, but I loved you first," James pointed out.  "How welcoming would you have been to one of Mr. Turner's former lovers?"

"Will doesn't have any former lovers."

He gave her a flat look.  "Theoretically, Elizabeth."

She made a face, apparently taking his point.  "Probably not very welcoming," she allowed.  "Why?"

"Because you may meet each other sooner or later," James said quietly.  "Especially if we end up fighting Beckett.  I don't know if... if you see her before I do, I may have to depend on you to get her off the _Endeavour_ or away from Beckett or fish her out of the ocean or any number of things from which I wouldn't be able to protect her, and I..."

"Want to make sure I wouldn't throw her off the ship myself?" Elizabeth asked wryly.

"Essentially, yes," James shrugged.  "Not that I think you would ever throw a pregnant woman off a ship, mind you, but I just... wanted to make sure I could count on you to keep her safe if you see her first."

"Of course you can," Elizabeth assured him.  "If she even agrees to accept my help—you said she doesn't like me."

"Stella is, above almost all things, extremely pragmatic," James said fondly.  "I think she'll accept.  Especially if you wear the star of the Greek Fire."

"I'll have to get someone else to embroider it," Elizabeth commented thoughtfully.  "I've been shed of embroidery for ages now."

"Perhaps someone in Shipwreck Cove can sew."

They took a break, then, to have lunch (rice instead of hard tack was one of the differences) and explore the ship.  Both James and Elizabeth found it fascinating, and James noticed the new captain was practically glowing with pride of ownership.  He put the question to her once again of how she managed to become captain, and this time Elizabeth told him.

"Calypso?" James repeated incredulously.

"That's what he said," Elizabeth replied quietly, fiddling with the knotted cord on her necklace.

"Of course," James sighed.  "Why not?  We have witches and sea monsters and phantom ships that go underwater; why not an ancient Greek goddess as well?"  He wished he could talk to Stella about it, and said so, adding, "I'd wager she knows something."

"Sao Feng wanted to free her—Calypso, I mean," Elizabeth commented, and he could tell she was sorrowful about Sao Feng's demise.  "He gave me his captaincy so I could do so, when I got to Shipwreck Cove."

"So many plots," James mused thoughtfully, scratching at the stubble on his cheek.  "Sao Feng and Barbossa want to free Calypso, Turner wants to free his father, Beckett wants to destroy the pirates who haven't decided anything yet, Jones likely wants to slaughter the lot of us, and God only knows what Sparrow is cooking up in this... this morass of schemes.  I know he's doing something—I hear he was closeted with Beckett before he escaped the _Endeavour_. I would give my left leg for an hour with my wife at this point, if only just so she could help me figure out what the devil is going on."

"We'll sort things out when we get to Shipwreck Cove," Elizabeth promised him.  "And we should be there tomorrow evening."

 _Not everything will be sorted,_ he thought as he followed her back topside.  _Stella won't be there._

* * *

 

As the _Empress_ sailed into Shipwreck Cove, James—now dressed in rather strange silk garments from the closet of Sao Feng—was torn between annoyance and awe.  Annoyance that he was entering the famed stronghold of the pirates and he couldn't do a thing about arresting them or anything but ask their help; awe that they had hidden the place so well, and that the fortress seemed made entirely of wrecked ships.  It was an amazing construct, and he was aware that he was gaping openly at it as they sailed up.

"It's incredible," Elizabeth remarked from behind him.

James turned, and was surprised to see that she, too, had donned new garments, along with a Chinese sword and an unflattering hat.  She looked like an Amazon.  "It is," he agreed.  "I had no idea pirates could create something so... unique."

"Mmm," Elizabeth said.  "You'll be coming with me to the meeting of the Brethren," she announced after a moment.  "But stay behind me and my men, and try not to be recognised."  She handed him another unflattering hat, which was triangular and woven of straw, which he donned without complaint.  "I don't want you shot or stabbed before we can present you as an ally."

James took a moment to marvel at the new strength in Elizabeth.  She had always been headstrong and wilful, of course, and conscious of everything her rank could bestow upon her, but now she was commanding as well.  This was a leader, who expected her orders to be obeyed without question.  She'd make a marvellous captain if they all survived what was coming.  Pity she'd remain entrenched in piracy, though.

"Fair enough," he acquiesced.  "I defer to your expertise in interacting peaceably with pirates."

"Didn't you spend nearly a year on Tortuga?" Elizabeth asked, raising a brow at him as they moved towards the longboats which would bear them to the towering construct of wrecked ships wherein met the Brethren Court.  "Did you not learn to 'interact peaceably' with pirates during that time?"

"Most of my time on Tortuga was spent either getting drunk, getting into fights whilst drunk, or hiding out at Stella's house while recovering from being drunk," James informed Elizabeth dryly.  "I'm afraid I never quite learned to interact peaceably with pirates while sober."

"We can get you some rum, if you like," Elizabeth offered, equally dry, as a young sailor showed them to the room where the Brethren Court was meeting.

"I think you'd prefer me to manage without," James replied sardonically as they moved through the corridors. "Considering the amount of fights I started with pirates while drunk."

"I seem to recall something of the sort," Elizabeth agreed, rolling her eyes at him.

Their guide halted outside a room and addressed Elizabeth.  "When you enter, Captain, you must take your sword and stab the globe before the table," he instructed.  He was a weedy young boy with mousey brown hair and blue eyes who looked like he could be consumptive, or had been before, and spoke with an accent that indicated education from extremely humble roots.  "It signifies a pirate's right to plunder the world, and also marks a desire to put away the sword while the Brethren gather to parlay," the youth lectured in a tone far too pedantic for a man of his limited years and station.

James successfully fought the urge to make sarcastic comments, keeping in mind the need to remain unnoticed in this den of scorpions, but he did murmur to Elizabeth as they entered the room, "You'll notice he said nothing about pistols."

"Believe me, I noticed," she agreed in an undertone, patting a bulge at her hip which was likely her own pistol.  Good—at least she wasn't going into the lion's den completely unarmed.

As they entered the chamber, formed from the hull of an old ship and dominated by a massive table, around which were seated six persons of importance surrounded by their own entourages, they heard Jack Sparrow saying, "...content as a cucumber to wait until Sao Feng joins us."

Elizabeth took that as her cue and announced, "Sao Feng is dead."  Agitated murmurs immediately broke out as she moved to stab the globe as required, and she raised her voice and moved towards the table as she added, "He fell to the _Flying Dutchman_."

That made the clamour worse, and Elizabeth was practically shouting as she tried to inform the court of the danger they were in and urged action.  Mr. Turner was conspicuously absent and apparently a traitor as well.  Meanwhile, James took the opportunity to look around the room and marvel, both at its construction and its inhabitants.  There were pirates in here with absolutely massive prices on their heads (assuming, of course, he properly recognised who they were).  If he could capture them, his daughter would be one of the most well-dowered young ladies in Jamaica (once she was born, that is) due to the rewards on the heads of these pirates.  Of course, that was a useless pipe-dream; he couldn't capture anyone at the moment, considering he was one lone naval officer surrounded by the piratical elite.  But he thought about it.

Mostly, though, James sat back and watched the Brethren's meeting unfold, with three distinct parties.  Elizabeth wanted a fight; the Chinese woman (Mistress Ching, perhaps?) led a faction that preferred withdrawal and waiting out the inevitable siege; Barbossa (whom James desperately wished to shoot, given his memory of the _Black Pearl's_ attack on Port Royal and the skeletal crew's assault on the _Dauntless_ ) favoured the release of Calypso, as did the Spaniard who was likely Villenueva.  However, the French faction disagreed, perhaps only because the Spanish supported it, and from there the circus degenerated into an all-out brawl.

"This is madness," Elizabeth complained incredulously.

"This is politics," Jack Sparrow replied.

"This is ridiculous," James muttered to himself.  He resolved to keep a close eye on Sparrow, though.  If Sparrow didn't have some plan of his own, James would eat his unflattering hat.

The brawl carried on and on and showed no signs of abating.  James remained on the edges with the other Chinese pirates behind Elizabeth, and watched the melee with a faint smile.  He remembered both instigating and participating in many such brawls while he was on Tortuga, and the scornful but fond way Stella would tend to him afterwards, all but telling him outright that she thought he was the stupidest man on the face of the earth.  He also recalled one particular brawl for which Stella had actually been with him, and which had, in a way, sealed their friendship with a jump out a window, a race through the jungle, and a tumble into a mud puddle.  He sighed wistfully.  He wished Stella was here with him now.  He'd seen the way the pirates feared her on Tortuga; perhaps she could've used that fear to force the lot of them into some kind of order.  At the very least, she could help him navigate the currents herein, and at least tell him who was part of what faction and which one was likely going to carry the day.

Barbossa eventually lost patience with the melee and climbed onto the table, firing his pistol at the ceiling and bringing at least a semblance of order back into the proceedings.  "It was the first court what imprisoned Calypso, and we will be the ones to set her free," he announced excitedly. "And in her gratitude she will see fit to grant us boons."

Jack Sparrow finally took the opportunity to contribute to the proceedings; aside from some digs at Elizabeth, he had been rather suspiciously quiet during the proceedings.  "Whose boons? Your boons? Utterly deceptive twaddlespeak, says I," he dismissed scornfully.

"If you have a better alternative, please... share," Barbossa invited as he stepped off the table, meeting Sparrow's scorn with his own.  James didn't need Stella around to realise that there was bad blood between those two men, and he watched their interactions with interest.

Jack went nose to nose with Barbossa and said one thing: "Cuttlefish."

There was a moment of incredulous silence.

"Let us not, dear friends," Jack went on, moving around the table through the crush of pirates as best he could, "forget our... dear friends... the cuttlefish.  Flippant glorious little sausages; pen 'em up together and they'll devour each other without a second thought. Human nature, innit?  Or fish nature," he pontificated in his own, unique way.  He placed his hands on the shoulders of the Chinese woman, which made her guards plainly nervous as they put their hands to their swords, and went on, "So yes, we could hole up here, well provisioned and well armed, and half of us would be dead within the month, which seems grim to me any way you slice it."  Jack, perhaps sensing the ire from the Chinese party, moved on, talking as he did his best to make his way through the throng, "Or, as my learned colleague so naively suggests," this was said with no small matter of sarcasm, "we could release Calypso, and we can pray that she will be merciful."  Jack paused for effect, and then continued, "I rather doubt it. Can we in fact pretend that she is anything other than a woman scorned, like which fury hell hath no? We cannot. _Res ipso loquitur tabula in naufragio_ ," which made James cringe at Sparrow's Latin; roughly translated (very roughly), it meant something like 'the matter speaks for itself, Court of Shipwreck Cove', but it was very badly done, "we are left with but one option. I agree with—and I cannot believe the words are comin' out of me mouth..." he grumbled, before steeling himself and actually saying the words, "Captain Swann. We must fight."

There was a pause as the court digested this monologue.

"You've only ever run from a fight," Barbossa accused, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring across the table.

"I have not!" Jack protested.

"You have too!"

"Have not!"

"You have too!"

"Have not!"

"You have too, and you know it!" Barbossa snapped.

"Have not, slander and calumny!" Sparrow retorted with a snobbish look across the table.

James wondered idly if all pirates acted like children, or if it was just something that Jack Sparrow inspired in those around him.  Infectious insanity, after a fashion.  He rather thought, though, that he'd have a hard time taking these pirates seriously after this summit, and seeing how they acted among their peers.  He'd have to tell Stella all about it when they were back together; she'd think it was marvellously amusing.

"I have only ever embraced that oldest and noblest of pirate traditions," Jack insisted grandly. "I submit here and now, that is what we all must do.  We must fight... to run away."

There was a moment of confused silence.

Gibbs was the first to break it.  "Aye!" he agreed, not sounding entirely sure of what he just agreed to, but willing to support his captain anyway.  You could say what you like about Joshamee Gibbs, James mused, but at least he was loyal.

"As per the code, an act of war—and this be exactly that—can only be declared by the pirate king," Barbossa informed them loftily.

Jack frowned at him.  "You made that up."

"Did I now?" Barbossa challenged, before raising his voice.  "I call on Captain Teague, keeper of the code."

Now there was a famous name indeed.  James found himself eager to see the legendary Edward Teague—especially after he noticed the expression on Sparrow's face at the mere mention of the other pirate.  He couldn't quite name all the emotions that fluttered across Jack's countenance, but anyone that could ruffle Jack Sparrow thusly was someone James dearly wanted to meet.  Even if he was a pirate.  (At least he was retired.)

The Indian faction, however, was unwilling to go any further.  "Sri Sumbhajee proclaims this all to be folly!" a bearded pirate standing to the right of the pirate lord in question shouted. "Hang the code! Who cares—"

He was cut off sharply, however, when he was shot in the chest.  The speaker fell over, and everyone else froze in place for a moment, before looking up to a shadowed alcove from whence the shot had come.

"Code is the law," came the raspy voice of the shooter.  He vanished from the elevated alcove, then, and reappeared down on the floor of the courtroom, dressed in some very fine, elaborate clothing and a massive hat.  This must be Teague.  He had a slight limp, which in no way detracted from his air of confidence or the air of command that was leaking off him in buckets.  This was a leader of men; James could tell instantly.

"You're in my way, boy," Teague growled to Jack as he came up to the table.  Jack, looking stricken, silently and without protest moved away, and James marked the date in his mind while stifling his laughter.  He had just seen Jack Sparrow give way without protest to someone else.  It was an historic moment.

Two wizened old men followed in Teague's wake, staggering under the weight of a tome that was larger than some of the tables James had at home.  They set it down on the table to murmurs of awe; apparently, this was the famed pirate's code.  James felt his fingertips itch—he desperately wanted to have a look, if only so he might understand his adversaries a bit more thoroughly.  If only Stella were here—she would've been absolutely ecstatic to have a look at a book which was even larger than her grimoire.

"Barbossa is right," Teague finally announced, after perusing the pages of the codex.

But then Jack Sparrow elbowed his way in, leaning over and squinting at the pages himself.  James, still hidden in the shadows behind Elizabeth, rolled his eyes.  He supposed it was too much to hope that anything could repress Sparrow for long.  "It shall be the duty of the king to declare war, parlay with said adversaries... fancy that," he remarked with a look at the other side of the table.  James wasn't sure if he was glaring at Barbossa or Elizabeth.

"There's not been a king since the first court, and that's not likely to change," the Frenchman dismissed.

"Not likely," Teague agreed lowly, moving away from the table and taking up a guitar.

"Why not?" Elizabeth wondered quietly, to those in her immediate vicinity.

"Because the king is elected by popular vote," Gibbs explained.

"And each pirate only ever votes for hisself," Barbossa added sourly.

Jack was undaunted.  "I call for a vote," he cried.

And thus the voting began.  It went just like Barbossa said: each pirate voted for themselves.  James supposed this was why they were pirates and not politicians.  But he made a mental list of just who each pirate lord was, what they looked like, and who they were surrounded by.  Just in case an opportunity later arose.

"I vote for Ammand, the corsair."

"Capitan Chevalle, the penniless Frenchman."

"Sri Sumbhajee votes for Sri Sumbhajee."

"Mistress Ching."

"Gentleman Jocard."

"Elizabeth Swann."

"Barbossa."

"Villanueva."

And then it was Jack's turn.  With a secretive smile on his lips and a light in his dark eyes, Jack cast his vote.  "Elizabeth Swann."

Elizabeth blinked. "What?"

"I know," Jack agreed with a grin.  "Curious, isn't it?"

The conclave dissolved into furious clamour, with most of the pirate lords shouting at Jack and demanding to know why he hadn't voted for them.  Through it all, Jack stood at the foot of the table and smirked.  James wondered what, exactly, Jack was doing.  He clearly had a plan, and making Elizabeth the Pirate King (dear God, Elizabeth Swann was King of the Pirates) was part of that plan.  But what was his ultimate goal?  Did he want to fight Beckett?  Elizabeth had been the loudest advocate of battle, and Jack had supported her.  Did Sparrow want vengeance?  Or did he have some other plan in the works?

Eventually Jack inquired, as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, "Am I to understand that you lot will not be keeping to the code, then?"

Captain Teague broke a string on his guitar, and the discordant note was a pointed reminder of his presence, his power, and his loyalty to the code.  The room fell silent, and the pirate lords sat back down.

"Very well," Mistress Ching said in her reedy voice.  "What say you, Captain Swann, king of the Brethren Court?" she demanded imperiously.

"Prepare every vessel that floats," Elizabeth ordered, a smile lurking in the corners of her lips.  James imagined that she was pleased as punch—this must be like a childhood dream come true; a moment of levity in the middle of such heavy matters.  "At dawn, we're at war."

The Indian Lord, Sri Sumbhajee, stood regally, and looked about at the court.  "And so, we will go to war!" he announced, and his voice was like that of a young child.

Everyone blinked, somewhat nonplussed, but then returned to discussing matters of importance—gunpowder stores, cannonballs, provisions, the best place to stage the battle, and suchlike.  James remained behind Elizabeth as she treated with her new subjects, but watched Jack Sparrow closely.  Sparrow had drawn back to speak with Teague, the two men too quiet for him to hear.  There was a curious comfort between the two of them, though Jack was obviously respectful and perhaps even slightly afraid of the other captain.  It was a fine thing to see, Jack Sparrow acting respectful for once in his life.

However, none of this was getting him any closer to his family.

James cleared his throat rather loudly and pointedly, reminding Elizabeth he was there.  She glanced over her shoulder at him and nodded, before turning back to her subjects and banging a set of cannonballs (which were apparently what the Brethren used in lieu of a gavel) on the table to get their attention.  "There is one more matter I would like to discuss," she announced grandly.  "I acquired the leader of a naval conspiracy against Beckett when he freed myself and my men from the _Flying Dutchman_.  I would like him to address you on the subject of the potential allies we might find in the armada."  As she finished, she beckoned him forward, and James stepped up to her side, removing the concealing hat from his head.

Jack, who had returned to the foot of the table, stared at him incredulously.  "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Lovely to see you too, Sparrow," James drawled sarcastically, ignoring Sparrow's petulant correction of, "Captain Sparrow."  He smiled tightly at the assembly of pirates, and introduced himself.  "I am Admiral James Norrington."

Pandemonium ensued once more.

James hit the deck the moment the first pistol came out—which he supposed was inevitable; he had been well-known throughout the Caribbean as a pirate-hunter even before he'd thrown in with Beckett—and remained crouched under the table until Elizabeth, Sparrow, and, oddly enough, Barbossa managed to restore order.  He bristled with annoyance as they described him as a deserter and a turncoat, but held his tongue since he was far outnumbered.  If being described as a traitor convinced the Brethren not to shoot him, he could live with the label until he got back to Stella and was once again in a position to destroy the lot of them.

He stood up, once the shouting was over, and straightened his clothing curtly.  Though he was no longer wearing his uniform, he was still a navy man, and had standards.  He also wanted to make sure nobody could mistake him as one of the pirates, and kept his movements and stance as stiff as he could make them as Elizabeth explained, "He is the leader of a conspiracy in the armada against Beckett.  He can help us."

"Why would he want to?" Jack asked dubiously.  "Last I recall, he was having a go at stabbing me."

"And who could blame me, really?" James retorted bitingly.  "I can't be the only man here who has tried to run you through in the past."  Though he firmly believed Jack had a habit of making people angry with him, James was nonetheless surprised when this seemed to gain him the acceptance of the other pirates as many of them looked at Jack, then at each other, and nodded.  Jack pouted at the lot of them like a boy of six.

"It does beg the question, though," Barbossa added, eyeing James warily.  "Why is he here?"

James heard Stella's drawling, sarcastic voice in his head— _surely you know how babies are made—_ and fought the urge to speak the thought aloud.  "Because William Turner Senior threw me off the _Flying Dutchman_ before I could mutiny and take control of the ship and the Heart of Davy Jones myself," he replied honestly, frowning at the thought of Turner the Elder.  It wasn't enough that the man lusted after his wife, oh no; he had to go and ruin James' carefully thought-out plans as well.

Bloody Turners.

"But," he went on, loftily ignoring the snickers from his listeners, "if you are asking about my motivations for turning on my benefactor, they are several.  For one, I recently learned that Beckett murdered a crown-appointed official of whom I was most fond, a man who had been under Beckett's dubious patronage and whose only crime was, as far as I can tell, to know too much.  As I am a client in possession of the same information, I could not but wonder if my fate was to be the same once I outlived my usefulness.  For another, I found I could no longer countenance Beckett's actions, as they conflicted with my own morals.  And finally, I have a desire to free my wife—who is nearly eight months gone with child—from Beckett's grasp, where he holds her captive as surety for my good behaviour and, I believe, treats her very ill."  James paused, then added wryly, "I believe some of you are familiar with her?  For before she was my wife, Mrs. Norrington was Black Stella Bell of Tortuga."

The room devolved into mayhem yet again.

James stood back and enjoyed the chaos his wife's name had unleashed.  Chevalle and Villenueva were clearly upset, shouting about what hope they didn't have now that both the _Dutchman_ and Black Stella were ranged against them; Jocard was yelling that they had to free the witch from her captivity if they wanted to survive; Barbossa was roaring that they surely had to release Calypso now, to have any hope of counteracting Stella's witchery; and Elizabeth was staring at him in bafflement, unsure of why Stella Norrington struck so much fear into the heart of her court.  Other pirates were telling stories about their interactions with the wind-witch in the past, about the time she'd sold them breezes or hexed them or turned a storm for them (according to Mr. Gibbs); James could make reasonable guesses as to which tales were true and which were utter rot.  Sparrow was oddly silent in the hubbub, stroking his beard and smirking.  And Teague... Teague was staring at James with a peculiar intensity as he moved to page through the codex, glancing up at him with keen eyes as he smoothed his fingers down the pages of the massive book.

"James, why is everyone panicking at the thought of your wife being under Beckett's control?" Elizabeth asked him quietly.

"I imagine because she's a powerful magician, and because she can control the weather to some extent," he replied placidly.

"Mmm," said Elizabeth, giving him an irritated look.  "You might've told me before now."

"Most of the time, I forget," James shrugged, in lieu of informing Elizabeth that he would never again tell anyone—even an old friend like her—the full nature of Stella's gifts.  "Stella's my wife, not my meteorological _deus ex machina_."

"It would've been nice to know," Elizabeth mumbled, before she once again called the court to order.  "This changes nothing!" she called out to her subjects.

"Might make it better, even," Sparrow offered, speaking up for the first time since James revealed himself.  "Stella's got no love for Beckett; I don't doubt she'd jump ship in a heartbeat if given the chance—say, if her beloved husband is standing with the pirates?" he insinuated with a languid gesture towards where James stood at the other end of the table.

"I suppose it's also worth noting that Beckett only kept her under control by threatening my life.  She does what he says and I live," James added slowly, as though he was pulling the words out of his mouth like pulling teeth.  It galled to have to agree with Sparrow about anything, let alone his own wife.

The court was starting to look both thoughtful and conniving, and Sparrow got more gregarious with his gestures.  "See?  And now we've got the husband, and if we let it be known to herself, over there, that he's safe and free with us and wants to see her away, Beckett'll have a devil of a time trying to keep her leashed.  Stella's in a bad way under his thumb; could be as we earn her undying gratitude by freeing her and she afterwards she turns the winds our way.  Could also happen that, once Beckett's leverage over her behaviour is gone, she loses her rag and brews up a hurricane and sinks the entire armada," he added cheerily, then shrugged.  "Either way, Beckett loses her and we get her.  Wins all around, eh?"

"What do you mean 'a bad way'?" James demanded.

"Bloody unhappy and bruised all over," was Sparrow's concise reply.

It took a bare moment for James to process the words and the implications therein, and once he did he clenched his fists so tightly his blunt fingernails dug into the flesh of his palms while the edges of his vision were blurred by a red rage.  "Bruised all over" could only mean one thing, and James was furious that Beckett would dare to lay a violent hand on Stella.

If he hadn't been resolved to see Beckett brought down before, he certainly was now.  There was no way any of these pirates could possibly be any worse than Beckett, a man who would murder a blameless person for simply knowing too much, and take another man's absence as an opportunity to beat his pregnant wife.  It seemed wickedness was not the sole realm of the brigands and lawless, like those who stood around this table; lawful, seemingly virtuous exteriors could hide very well the monster within.  James had no further compunctions about using the Brethren Court as a vehicle for his goals.  All that mattered now was rescuing Stella and bringing down Beckett.

Having decided thusly, James was much more liberal with information, afterwards, detailing the sign of the Greek Fire and listing, as far as he knew, the ships which were friendly to the cause.  Elizabeth decreed afterwards that they would have as many flags as possible made with the five-pointed star of the Greek Fire, so that in the battle the Brethren might hoist those colours and sow discord in the armada's ranks.   James was forced to allow that it was a sound strategy which would likely be wildly successful, even as he cringed inwardly at the thought of these pirates triumphing over his navy.

It was all for Stella, he reminded himself.  He had to do this for his family.  He'd feel bad about it later, and atone as needed in the years after... but only if he had his family with him.  There'd be no point to the rest of his life if he lost everything again.  He'd rebuilt from the ground up once before—partly through Stella's help, as she stood beside him and helped him claw his way out of the mire—but he wouldn't have the strength to do it again if he was once more deprived of his life, livelihood, and loves.  Nor did he think he'd be so blessed to have another sarcastic, snippy guardian angel come to save him from himself.  This was his last chance; if he lost now, he'd lose all.  Failure wasn't an option, because the stakes were far too high.  Thus, he had no choice but to throw in with the pirates.  As he said, he'd feel bad about it later.  For now, he needed to rescue Stella.

The meeting broke up shortly thereafter, with Elizabeth dismissing the majority of her new court but keeping several key members back to speak further.  But as she moved away to speak further with Barbossa, Sparrow came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulders.  "Oi, Commodore," he said.  "Cap'n Teague wants a word."

"What?" James asked blankly, looking automatically over Sparrow's shoulder to where Teague lounged in his chair, fingers toying idly with the guitar held in his crabbed hands, staring hard at the two of them.  Teague's gaze disconcerted him and he turned his own eyes back to Sparrow.  "Why?"

Sparrow rolled his dark eyes and put a be-ringed hand on his back, propelling him towards the aged pirate lounging, like a tiger at rest, in the chair at the foot of the table.  "Mate, if Teague wants to talk to someone, I don't ask 'why'.  I just goes and gets 'em, savvy?" he said dryly, pushing James along and presenting him to the old pirate with the keen dark eyes, lingering on him in a way that was both familiar and foreign at the same time.  In fact, the stillness of Teague's face and the sharpness in his eyes rather reminded him of the way Stella used to look at him in the early days of their acquaintance.  "Here he is," Sparrow announced needlessly, shoving James further forward.

James straightened his clothing curtly and gave a neat bow to the elder pirate, resisting the urge to throw a glare over his shoulder at Sparrow.  "You wished to see me?" he inquired coolly.

The dark eyes didn't move from his face.  "Black Stella's husband," Teague remarked.  "You married her."

"I did marry her," James confirmed warily.

"Most of us don't," Teague said slowly.  "Men," he elaborated at James' confused expression.  "The women of that family don't marry, as a rule.  You must be something special to make Nell's daughter—Stella Esmerelda, is it?—change her mind."

"You've never met Stella at all, have you?" James replied dryly, wondering who this man was to have knowledge of both Stella's second name and the family from whence she'd sprung.  "One of her driving goals in life from the very first moment I met her was to marry a respectable man and get off Tortuga."

That made Teague chuckle.  "That's new, then," he rasped.

This man knew much of Stella's family.  He was likely old enough to have encountered more than one of Stella's ancestors, including her mother; so why was he interested in Stella and their marriage?  "Who are you?" James wondered suspiciously.  "And what is your interest in my wife?"

Teague's craggy face creased into a wicked grin that was very familiar, and James suddenly realised that this had to be Jack Sparrow's father.  It would explain the physical resemblance and the curious deference which Sparrow never rendered onto anyone else.  He felt rather daft for not having seen it before.

However, there was no way he could've ever seen what came next.

"I like to keep an eye on my family," was Teague's answer.  "And your wife, boy, is family."

James blinked.  He looked from Teague, to Sparrow, who seemed to have arrived at the same conclusion that James just had and was equally horrified, and then back to Teague, who was smirking at the both of them.  The worst part was, Teague's words were credible.  Hadn't James been noticing some rather disconcerting similarities to Stella just moments ago?  And hadn't Stella once mentioned a great-uncle...?

"You're the mythical uncle," James said, recalling the title Stella had assigned her relation.

"I'm no myth, nephew," Teague chuckled gruffly.

"So ol' aunt Esme was Bonny Nell's mum?" Sparrow demanded disbelievingly.  "I never knew that.  I could've gotten a family discount all them times I sought those witches out," he added mournfully.

Discounts aside, assuming that 'Bonny Nell' was Stella's mother, and that "Aunt Esme" was referring to Stella's grandmother and namesake, the connection was clear.  "Esmerelda, Eleanor, Stella," James recited woodenly, trying to fit this new information into his paradigm of the world—a world in which he was now related to Jack Sparrow.  Jack Sparrow was Stella's cousin, and therefore now a relation of his. He tried not to let the unvarnished horror he felt show on his face, but had a feeling he was doing a rather poor job.  Which was all right, since Sparrow wasn't bothering to hide his incredulous distaste either.

There was no sense in the world.

Teague, meanwhile, was seized with raspy, wheezing laughter, obviously amused by the spectacle with which his younger relations were presenting him.  James imagined, rather resentfully, that this was why Jack Sparrow had never known of his kinship with Stella (and he didn't doubt Sparrow would've used it, had he known, to at least try and protect himself from castration): Teague wanted to reveal all at the opportune moment to provide the most amusement to himself.

Like father, like son.

"Tell me about my niece, then, nephew," Teague eventually ordered, once his laughter had abated.  He seemed to take perverse pleasure in the was James cringed every time the pirate addressed him thusly.

"I have no doubt you've heard many a tale of Black Stella, and thus need no further illumination from me," James replied stiffly.

"But I want to hear about the woman, not the witch," Teague said, shaking a craggy finger at him.

"She's massive," Sparrow piped up helpfully, miming the swell of Stella's pregnant belly (and likely exaggerating most foully; Stella was a small woman, and were her belly that distended she'd be completely unable to walk).

"She's with child, idiot," James snapped.

"Congratulations are due, then, eh mate?" Sparrow leered, jostling James' elbow.  "You plucked that rose right well.  Never would've thought you'd have it in you—or her, as the case may be."

James felt he'd been admirably composed and restrained throughout the evening, despite being thrown in among pirates, nearly shot, forced to betray his brothers-in-arms and his duty, and forced to understand that his wife was in even more danger than he had previously supposed.  But this was the very last straw.  He wasn't about to stand here and let Sparrow leer at him and make such insinuations about his wife!

So he punched Sparrow in the mouth.

Jack dropped like a sack of bricks and sat down hard on the floor, rubbing his jaw and looking confusedly up at the man looming above him.  Teague burst into raspy laughter again and stood, forestalling any further violence on both parts (though James didn't think Jack would've hit back; fisticuffs weren't really Sparrow's style).  "You asked for that one, Jackie," the Keeper of the Code chided his son gently.  "Come now, lads.  We'd best go talk to the seamstresses and see to those flags the King ordered," he said, shooing them ahead of him out of the great court chamber.  "And you, nephew, can tell me more about my niece."

Before they progressed too far from the court's chamber, they were waylaid by a young woman whom James could describe best as "comely".  Or perhaps "pugnacious".  Either way, the lady approached them with a glint in her gimlet eye and a promise of violence in her step.

Jack stepped forward to meet her.  "Remy, darling!" he cried, grinning widely.

Remy was unappeased.  She slapped Jack right across the face with such force that the sound of the impact echoed along the wooden corridors, and a bright red handprint bloomed on Sparrow's swarthy cheek.  Then she gave a haughty huff and flounced away, storming back down the corridors from whence she came.  Jack stared after her, rubbing his assaulted cheek, and grumbled, "I don't think I deserved that."

"That one you did, Jackie," Teague corrected mildly.

"I daresay he deserves all of them, given the way he treats women," James muttered.  "Perhaps I should have a word with Stella about castrating him after all."

Teague just smirked, but Sparrow turned to James, clearly alarmed, and fixed a pleading expression on him.  "You wouldn't do that, would you, mate?  Your own cousin?" he begged.

"Behave yourself, Sparrow, and we'll talk," James snapped.  Sparrow immediately mimed pinching his lips shut, and indeed was admirably restrained for the remainder of their trek to wherever it was the seamstresses dwelled.

Truthfully, the room looked more like a storeroom for plundered cloth than any seamstress' shop James had ever seen.  Which, he allowed, considering where he was, was probably accurate.  Everything in the room had likely been stolen at one time or another, which would account for the variety of the bolts of cloth strewn about the room, ranging from a sensible grey broadcloth to a vibrant crimson silk.  There were piles of stolen clothing as well, much of it richly trimmed.  And over the entire domain presided a buxom young woman with a pretty face and a sweet smile.  However, the impression of sweetness was a little misleading; the look in her sharp blue eyes implied that the woman wouldn't hesitate to box your ears if you sent anything awry in her little cloth-draped kingdom.

"Anazazi," was how Teague greeted her, which James didn't think was her real name.  Given the look she gave him, however, when he dared appear sceptical convinced him to hold his tongue.  She wouldn't be the first woman to use an assumed name, he allowed, nor the last.  "We've need of flags.  Quickly."

"How quickly?" Anazazi asked suspiciously.  "And what's to be on the flags?"

When the situation was explained to her, Anazazi looked like she was considering boxing Teague's ears (for making the request), James' ears (for requiring the request), and Jack's ears (for merely being present).  Admittedly, the responsibility of "making as many flags with five-pointed stars on them as you can before tomorrow morning" was a rather daunting prospect.  But Miss Anazazi pressed her lips together, grabbed a bolt of grey cloth, and demanded that someone roust the other seamstresses from their beds, for they had much work to do.  She promised them at least five flags come morning, but no more, and then unceremoniously threw the lot of them out of her sewing room.

James thought idly as he left that Elizabeth would fit in quite well with the women of this place.  So would Stella, for that matter, but Elizabeth had always been the one chafing at society's restrictions and trying so hard to fight free and be utterly herself—her spirited, fiery, warlike self, unconcealed by any artifice or tamed by any manners.  Perhaps she had finally found a place where she could do that and be happy, albeit with pirates.  Then again, Elizabeth had always had a spark of the piratical about her; perhaps this was just a strange form of destiny.  James wished Elizabeth well, and hoped quietly that she would ever be able to avoid the law.  He would hate to find himself one day forced to arrest her or witness her hanging.  For himself, all he wanted was to go home and find some kind of peace.  Perhaps he'd give up his naval career after this—after more than a decade chasing pirates, he was wearying (although that might have more to do with the constant shocks he'd been enduring for the past few days than any reassessment of his calling).

 _Don't put the cart before the horse, old boy_ , he scolded himself inwardly.  _Survive what's coming, and then think about the future_.

And the future looked like it was going to contain more awkward conversation with Captain Edward Teague, whom James couldn't quite bring himself to think of as "uncle".  Teague had steered him back to the large meeting chamber with the codex and the globe (which still had Elizabeth's sword and others planted in it, he noticed) after they left the sewing rooms.  Jack had slunk away earlier, and the room which before had been stuffed full of pirates was now empty.

Teague led him to the antechamber wherein he had tarried before shooting the Indian; there, on a table, lay the massive Codex Pirata, open and sprawling.  "Look there," the older pirate ordered, pointing with a crabbed finger.

James did as he was bid, wishing Elizabeth was around to back him up.  He peered at the spidery writing on the page, and then startled when he read familiar names marching down the page.  Mirela o Washosko García, Isabella García Rodriguez, Esmerelda Laroche, Eleanor Abernathy, and there, at the bottom, was Stella Bell, wind-witch of Tortuga.  Under each name was a short description of their powers, their fees, where they were likely to be found, and a rough date of their death when applicable.

He was absorbed in reading what the pirates had known about Stella's family and comparing it to his own knowledge when Teague appeared at his elbow with a quill and a bottle of ink.  "Change her name," he bid, handing him the quill.  "She's not a Bell any longer."

It seemed terribly symbolic when James dipped the quill and struck out Stella Bell's name from the codex, replacing her with Stella Norrington.  He wasn't happy to see her (and his own family name) in this book at all; it would forever mark the both of them as people who had once belonged to the world of the pirates, that underbelly of the rest of the world where crime and vice flourished.  That was a mark that would never leave them, though it was left on their souls and not on their arms, as the pirate brand was.  But it was only now that James Norrington felt he truly understood what Stella had meant when she talked about an irrevocable fate.  Perhaps he had always been fated to be tangled with pirates, for no matter how hard he fought to be free of them, he was somehow always drawn back.  Perhaps this was all fated beforehand, and there was nothing he could do or could ever have done to change it.

In that moment, he felt truly sorry for Will Turner, and whatever fate was awaiting him.

"You never wrote her, or sent messages to her, or let her know you even existed," James said suddenly, as he stared down at the names on the page.  "Why?"

"We always went our own ways," Teague replied with a shrug. 

"That's no excuse!  She could've used family," James argued angrily, recalling Stella's isolation during her years in exile on Tortuga.  Stella had never said anything, but James knew she'd been terribly lonely, and that whole weeks had passed wherein she hadn't spoken to a single living being. "She was left utterly alone after her mother's death—the knowledge that she had at least one person left who wished her well in the world would've been a comfort.  Why did you never even let her know who you were?"

"That isn't how the family works," Teague insisted.  "We're not a close-knit clan.  We do as we like and we go our own ways.  That's how it's always been, and how it will always be.  These women..." he laid his wrinkled hand on the page, "These women don't put down roots.  They bear their children and move on, driven by the power in them.  It's their legacy, and their curse, and it's something they can't change, that fey blood of theirs."

"I don't think you know them as well as you think you do," James said coldly.  "Perhaps Esmerelda was different, but that is no faithful portrait of my wife as I know her—and I do know her, make no mistake. There's no legacy and no curse—at least, none that make her act thus.  You don't know her at all, and I doubt you will ever have a chance to. There's no place in her life for pirates—even pirate relations, and certainly not after a lifetime of absence."

With a stiff bow, he moved to leave the room with the Code, resolved to find Elizabeth and get some sleep, but Teague's hoarse voice made him pause on the threshold.  "You love her," he said.

"Very much," James replied simply.

"Then I hope you get back to her... nephew," Teague added, with a hint of the impish wit that veritably dripped from his son's tones.  He'd also called James "nephew" again, which he supposed couldn't be disputed.  Teague and Stella were blood-kin, and that couldn't be changed.

It could be hidden, however, and never mentioned, which would be the likely future of that information. James had meant what he said: knowing her as he did, he doubted Stella's life as it was now had any place in it for a piratical relative, especially one who had chosen to be absent from her entire life and whose existence might threaten the comfortable future Stella so wanted for their children.  When she discovered this new branch of her family—and he had no doubts that she'd learn of it eventually, even if James himself didn't tell her, though he had a mind to—he doubted Stella would care.  Sometimes the family you chose to cleave to meant much more than that into which you were born.

And James and Stella had chosen to cleave to each other.  He was her family now, and she was his, and they needed no other.

"I will return to her," James promised grimly, and departed.  _Come hell or high water_ , he vowed silently, _I will return to my wife._


	43. Stella Liberationis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a battle at sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N: Moving onwards; this is one of the last (if not the last) chapters taken mostly from the movies.  There's a lot of POV switching; you'll have to let me know if it's too confusing or hard to follow or disjointed or whatever, so I'll know whether or not to ever do it again._
> 
> I've been getting better at that, mostly.

Despite having told the Brethren Court just how many ships the armada contained, they were somehow still shocked to actually see the entire fleet lined up against them.  Not that James blamed them entirely, of course; despite the knowledge that this was his fleet and that at least half the ships out there were only half-crewed (and crewed badly at that), it was still a very intimidating sight, especially since the ocean was still wreathed in the morning mists.

The warlike cheers which had, only moments before, been ringing out over the deck of the _Black Pearl_ , withered into silence.  Everyone slowly turned to look at Jack Sparrow, standing awkwardly in the middle of a mass of pirates on the deck, who offered them all a sheepish smile and suggested, "Parlay?"

James rolled his eyes and went to stand next to Elizabeth, who was stationed next to the helm.  She'd chosen the Black Pearl to serve as her flagship—probably due to familiarity with said ship—and was looking across the ocean at all the ships lined up against her with a set to her jaw that was very familiar.  Despite the odds against her, she wasn't going to back down.  "Sparrow suggests parlay," he informed her dryly.

"And what will that do?" Elizabeth inquired scornfully.

James shrugged.  "Allow you to look your adversary in the eye?  Assess his confidence?  Perhaps get my wife to jump ship?"

"Will's over there as well," Elizabeth informed him, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.  "You're not the only one with a loved one in that armada."

"I never said I was," James replied evenly.  "But Mr. Turner is not the one controlling the winds for that fleet, nor the one being beaten by its leader."

Elizabeth sighed, and rubbed a hand across her face.  James knew how she felt, and he idly fingered the bright green scarf tied around his waist, securing the blue-and-gold admiral's uniform he'd re-donned.  He needed to wear the uniform for a variety of reasons: so he could be easily identified as sympathetic to the armada, so he could be easily identified as a member of the Greek Fire, and so he could have the advantages of whatever spells Stella had stitched into the cloth.  The green scarf, however, would help him stand apart from the rest of the company sailors, and hopefully forestall any friendly fire from the pirates.

Besides, the length of bright green fabric had been a gift.  A group of men he hadn't known, who were in the entourage of Jocard, had given it to him this morning before he boarded the _Pearl_.  There had been an old man, a mulatto, a Spaniard, a young boy, and a tall African.  It was the African who had presented him with the scarf.  _For the lady_ , he'd said.  _She saved us_ , the boy had added.  The old man nodded, finally shedding light on the situation by explaining, _She buy our lives from Davy Jones_.  And then James finally knew who these men were: these were some of the pirates whose lives had been purchased at the expense of Stella's mental health with the coin of her secrets.  He felt... oddly grateful—grateful that Stella's sacrifice and suffering were appreciated by those who she had been suffering for, grateful that she was remembered by them, and grateful that he could feel close to her for even a moment.

The others had eventually left, but the tall African—Shehu, he said his name was—had remained behind.  _She love you_ , he said without preamble.  _She is a great lady, and she love you._

_I know_ , James had replied.  _She is a wonderful woman, and I love her dearly.  And I will return to her, come hell or high water._

That had seemed to satisfy Shehu, who nodded to him.   _Tell her we remember her_ , was all he said, before leaving to board his own ship.

James stroked his fingers along the fringe of the sash and remembered that conversation, aching to see Stella again and tell her that all her pain and suffering had at least some meaning to it, and that it was worth something to the men she saved.  Mostly, he just wanted to see her again.  James had dreamed of her last night, watching her tend to a nest of doves in the tree at the back of their house in Port Royal, but he couldn't get to her, no matter how hard he tried, as though he'd been imprisoned behind a wall of glass.  He wished he could dismiss the dream as nothing, but he couldn't; he knew too well how real dreams could be.  He just hoped his inability to reach his wife was not something that would be recreated in his waking life.

Sparrow sidled up beside them and inquired, as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, "Parlay, love?"  Elizabeth gave him a baleful glare, but the set of her shoulders was such that James knew she was going to relent.  They would have a parlay with Beckett, and, God willing, he'd see Stella in a few hours.

* * *

 

God was not willing.

* * *

Elizabeth Swann was going to murder Cutler Beckett.

She'd decided to do so when she'd found out her father had been killed on his orders, but seeing Beckett in the flesh and hearing his words had firmed her resolution into stone.  _He chose his own fate_... what rubbish! Murder was not something the victim  chose!  Her father would not have chosen to be killed any more than he would've chosen for his daughter to be King of the Pirates (and she was under no illusions about that).

Had Weatherby Swann had a choice, they would've returned to the way things had been before they'd ever laid eyes on the _Black Pearl_ ; Elizabeth would've been a society lady, Will Turner would've been completely out of the picture, and there would be no mention of pirates at all.  Though Elizabeth had loved her father dearly, she had never been comfortable inside the walls he built for her; perhaps she'd even resented him a little for keeping her so figuratively locked up.  She still recalled what the witch's ghost—whom she now knew to be Stella Norrington—had said to her on the voyage to Singapore.  _I suppose you hated your station so much throughout your life that you were eager to shed everything about it the moment you could—including your loving father, who'd never been anything but supportive of you. You're all he has in the world, and he's sold himself to save you. Yet you've all but forgotten him to gallivant around with pirates._

The witch-ghost's words had hurt terribly, and Elizabeth was honest with herself to admit that it was because there was a measure of truth in them.  She had been eager to get away from the stifling requirements of her station, eager to stretch her wings and fly free for once in her life without feeling the silken net of her father's concern and disappointment and high social station holding her back.  But no matter how much she might or might not have resented her father, she had still loved him, and never, ever wanted him come to harm on her account.  Her burning desire for vengeance was stoked by the fuel of her own guilt.  And no matter what he said or implied, Beckett's hands were stained with her father's blood, and he would pay for what he did.  Elizabeth Swann would have her revenge... because she would never have peace, otherwise.

On the bright side, Will was back by her side again.  She had missed him, while he was away—with Beckett.  But she wasn't especially angry about it; she understood how important setting his father free was to Will, especially since she was now resolved to avenge her own wronged father, much like Will.  Besides, Elizabeth didn't think her fiancé would've betrayed them without a push from Jack.  She loved Will with all her heart, but he wasn't counted among the world's great schemers.  He was much more straightforward.  No, Elizabeth was willing to bet that it was Jack who was pulling the strings in this matter—why else would Will have been in possession of that compass?  Why else would the two of them have been sharing such sly little smiles during the parlay? As much as it galled to admit it, she agreed with Beckett: Jack had some kind of plan.  She had no idea what it was, but she knew it existed.

Now she could only hope that Jack wouldn't muck it up... whatever "it" was.

"King?" Will inquired as they walked away, with a hint of that crooked grin she loved so much.

Elizabeth smiled.  Even if they were facing an armada at least twice the size of their own fleet as well as treachery in their own ranks, she couldn't help but feel happy that the man she loved was with her again.  "Of the Brethren Court," she confirmed wryly, adding, "Courtesy of Jack."

Will was clearly surprised, but he didn't stop walking away from Beckett.  "Maybe he really does know what he's doing," he remarked.  Then he lowered his voice.  "Do you really have Norrington on the _Pearl_?"

Elizabeth nodded as she climbed into the longboat that would bear them back to the _Pearl_.  That had been one of James' ideas.  He'd requested that she make it sound like he'd been kidnapped, rather than defected willingly, if only to protect his wife.  But they had both decided to reveal his presence among the pirates in the hope that the news would, one way or another, get back to Stella, and tear her away from Beckett.  And so Elizabeth had flat-out informed Beckett that the pirates had his Admiral.

_"Advise your brethren, you can fight and all of you will die, or you can not fight, in which case only most of you will die," Beckett had told her._

_"Including your Admiral," Elizabeth had replied.  "We have him captive on the_ Black Pearl _."_

_Beckett's expression hadn't changed at all.  "And we all thought he was dead.  I suppose this is what comes of trusting Davy Jones' information," he commented mildly, with a disdainful look at the being in the bucket beside him, who snarled a little but otherwise remained silent.  "It makes no difference, of course."_

_"So you'll just let him die?" Elizabeth said incredulously, not bothering to conceal her loathing.  "What will his wife—his extremely powerful witch of a wife—think of that?"_

_"Who says Stella will ever know?" Beckett riposted._

_"You're the most reprehensible man I've ever known," Elizabeth informed him in disgust.  "And you murdered my father."_

_A thin smile.  "He chose his own fate."_

_But he didn't choose! Elizabeth wanted to scream.  He didn't choose to die! You made that choice, and by God I'll see you killed for it._

"Beckett won't tell her," Will said, as the longboat set out to sea, jerking Elizabeth out of her recollections.  "Stella, I mean.  He won't tell her that Norrington's alive."

Elizabeth took a moment to digest that, and realized Will was right.  Beckett wouldn't say a word about James Norrington's whereabouts for fear it would drive his sorcerous asset into the arms of his enemies.  "Is it possible she might find out from another source?" she wondered.

"Aye, 'tis possible," Barbossa interjected, "but I can't speak as to how likely.  Ye can never quite tell with witches.  Best not count on Black Stella, your majesty," he added, hitting her new title with a measure of sarcasm.

Elizabeth sighed, and let her shoulders slump.  She had hoped that the Brethren would be able to count at least on Black Stella's neutrality; the thought of Beckett controlling a woman who in turned controlled the wind and could summon storms at will was a frightening prospect.  Furthermore, James would be very unhappy when he realised they weren't bringing back his wife after all; he was trying to be stoic about it, but Elizabeth had known him for more than half her life, and she could still read him well.  And James had so been looking forward to seeing his wife again.  She felt bad for disappointing him.

Will reached out and took her hand, squeezing it gently.  He had always been so gentle with her—even now, when they both knew he didn't need to be so gentle, that she wasn't a pampered high-class maiden any longer.  Will was gentle with her because he loved her, and it was one way he could show her just how much. Elizabeth squeezed back, trying to convey the depth of her love for him through her touch.  They remained silent for the rest of the boat-ride back, quietly basking in each others' presence again.

James was waiting for them when they arrived back on the Pearl, and Elizabeth could see the light in his green eyes dim when he noticed that they longboat only held three.  "Where's Sparrow?" he inquired curiously, after registering that, while Jack Sparrow had departed with them, Will Turner returned in his stead.

"On the _Flying Dutchman_ now, I think," Elizabeth replied, hauling herself up on deck after Barbossa.  "I think that's his plan."

"It is," Will replied firmly, but supplied no further information.  Elizabeth let him keep his own counsel on the matter; she had more than enough to worry about at the moment.  "It's good to see you alive," he added, addressing James and surprising them both.  Will shrugged a little at their obvious shock, and explained, "I spent some time with Mrs. Norrington while I was on the _Endeavour_.  She was extremely distraught at the news of your death."

"She thinks I'm dead?" James asked, sounding as pained by this news as his wife had doubtless been at the report of his demise. 

Will nodded.  "Yes.  Jones informed her in the cruellest way possible, and she didn't take it well.  She... well.  She cried a lot," he said uncomfortably.

James clenched his jaw so tightly Elizabeth could almost hear his teeth grinding together.  "We'll rescue her, James, I promise; she won't think you're dead for much longer," she vowed.

And it wasn't just because Black Stella was better used by the Brethren than against the Brethren (at least in her opinion).  James was a good man who had been badly hurt by her own actions, and only now seemed to have gotten over it (gotten over her).  He obviously loved his wife, and Stella plainly loved James in return.  It would be the height of injustice if two such lovers were kept apart, and Elizabeth would do all she could to bring them together once more.

* * *

 

Stella Norrington felt as though there were ants crawling on her skin.  Something huge was going to happen today.  She wasn't entirely sure what it was—though she could venture a guess—though she could feel the potential in the air like lightening... and ants.

She tried to listen in on the parlay that was happening over on the sandbar, but she was too distracted by the feeling niggling at her body, by the way her daughter was kicking at her insides, by the way her midshipmen were fluttering nervously around her, and by the way Captain Groves was demanding her attention.  Now that Will Turner had departed, and she had bid him farewell ( _Don't forget about Calypso, Mr. Turner.  I hardly think it likely, Mrs. Norrington.  Good luck, Mr. Turner; my regards to your father, should you see him first.  Thank you, Mrs. Norrington, for all your help_.) they wanted her below, out of the way, but the sky was calling her.

"I need to stay here," she informed Groves hazily.

"Madam, it's going to be extremely dangerous on deck soon enough; you need to go below," Groves insisted.

"Then when it becomes dangerous I will go, but for now I need to stay," Stella insisted, looking up at the sky, then across the water.  Snatches of conversation between the Brethren and Beckett drifted to her on the breeze, but nothing more than a word here or there.  Most of her attention was being demanded by the strange excitement in the atmosphere.  "They're going to release her," she murmured.

"Mrs. N?" Mr. Sewall asked her, confused.

"This will be a day to remember, my lads," Stella said, waddling over to the rail closest to the _Black Pearl_ , where she could feel Tia's presence.

"Why?" Mr. Clark wondered.  "Mrs. N?  Why?"

But Stella had already sunk into a kind of meditative, mystical haze, pulled halfway into the River just from the amount of building magic in the air, and she was beyond hearing them at the moment. 

* * *

 

_"Barbossa, you can't release her!"_

_"We have to give Jack a chance."_

_"Apologies, your majesty! Too long me fate has not been in my own hands—no longer."_

* * *

 

"The enemy has opted for oblivion," Beckett announced loudly, in his reedy voice.  "Ready the fleet," he ordered Lieutenant Greitzer, who leapt to obey his orders, before moving to where he could see Stella Norrington standing at the rail.  "You'll remain in my stateroom during the battle, directing the winds as best you can," Beckett announced.  When she didn't reply, he reached for her arm.  "Stella?  Did you hear me?"

Beckett jerked his hand back immediately when a small, painful spark of electricity shocked him the moment his skin touched Stella's.  She turned to look at him, but her black eyes were wide and unseeing, staring through him at something else.  "What is it, Cutler?" she asked scornfully, though her tone was still so distant.

"You'll remain in my stateroom when we engage the pirates," he replied, slightly shaken.  His sister Martina had occasionally looked like that, when she was having a vision; if he disturbed her in the middle of a Seeing, she'd hex him the moment she was aware enough to do so, and then tell their mother, who would verbally tear strips out of his hide and hex him again.  And while he doubted Stella would curse him outright (at least, if he didn't provoke her), he couldn't stop feeling uncomfortable with the way her dark eyes were staring at nothing.

"If you engage the pirates," Stella said, looking back out over the water.  Before Beckett could walk away, however, her voice made him pause.  "What are you hiding from me, Cutler?"

She sounded so much like his mother just then, down to the very tones and words she spoke, that Beckett couldn't help but shiver.

* * *

 

_"Be there some sort of rite or incantation?"_

_"Aye. Items to be brought together... done. Items to be burned. And someone must speak the words, 'Calypso, I release you from your human bonds.'"_

* * *

 

"I'm hiding nothing," Beckett replied reflexively, using the same words he'd always used with his mother.  Mother had never believed him, though, and would box his ears until he told her the truth.

The stakes were much higher here, however, than they ever had been in his childhood, and he knew he must keep utterly silent about the fact that James Norrington yet lived, and was at this very moment among the pirates.  Instead of a scolding for stolen sweets or a whipping for sneaking out of the house, Beckett knew he could expect Stella's reaction to be far, far worse than anything his mother had ever done to him.  He had no doubt that Stella would tear the fleet apart in her efforts to get to her husband, even without taking into account whatever vengeance she'd first extract upon him personally.  And that was something he could under no circumstances allow.  He couldn't lose his second most strategic asset on the very day of the battle, nor fall when he was so close to winning!

He had come so, so far, and was poised upon the very cusp of victory.  Nothing must stop him now!  He would eliminate the pirates (and James Norrington among them, if need be, though he'd rather prefer not to; Norrington had been most useful in restraining Stella, and Beckett would prefer to have him back alive and thus useful as leverage over his wayward wife), and thus establish himself as the premier man in the East India Trading Company.  With his continued power over the sea (thanks to the _Dutchman_ ) and the skies (thanks to Stella), he would soon enough rule the company, and thus become one of the—if not the—most powerful man in England.  Kings would seek his favour, because he would have control over all trade and travel—and perhaps one day he might even be a king himself.  And as the most powerful man in the world—for who could ever challenge him?—he could destroy the supernatural forever, wipe them all out.  Jack Sparrow would be the first to go, and Stella Norrington would be last.

But only if he was able to conceal her husband's whereabouts.

"You're lying," was Stella's even reply.  "What did the Brethren tell you that you don't want me to know, Cutler?"

* * *

 

_"You didn't say it right.  You have to say it right._

_"Calypso... I release you from your mortal bonds."_

* * *

 

Beckett was saved from having to concoct another lie when Stella felt it—the great upwelling, like the blooming of the brightest flower or the approach of the most powerful hurricane.  It was somehow a more intense, powerful sensation than she had ever felt before—and she could feel it.  The bonds holding Calypso to her human form as Tia Dalma snapped like embroidery thread, and the power of the goddess, unchained, washed over her mind like a wave.  Distantly, she was aware that she was crying out from the intensity of the feeling, that Beckett was staggering back in confusion and fear and that her midshipmen were frightened and trying to get her to tell them what was wrong.  But all Stella was aware of was Tia... Calypso.

She heard Barbossa's voice as though she was standing next to him. " _Calypso, I come before you as a servant, humble and contrite! I have fulfilled me vow, and now ask your favour. Spare meself, me ship, me crew, but unleash your fury upon those who dare pretend themselves your masters... or mine,"_ he beseeched the goddess.

_No, don't!_ Stella cried out mentally, hoping Tia... Calypso would hear her, across the distance.  _Please don't!  Not while I'm on this ship, not while my brother and my dear young lads are here with me... not while I need the pirates to keep Beckett's attention divided.  It was Jones who gave the Brethren the means to imprison you—unleash your fury on him as well!_

Calypso began shrieking—if anything in that low octave could be truly be counted as a shriek—at Barbossa, at the Brethren, at Jones and everyone who had ever crossed her in what Stella believed was ancient Greek.  And then she dissolved into a multitude of crabs and her power dispersed, going back into the sea that was her own.  The sea, which was suddenly so much more alive and which sang to Stella's senses in a way it had never done before.  And why should it not, after all?  Its goddess was free and had returned to it.

And then... then the sea called to her.

_Stella.  Come._

She heard Calypso's words like the roar of a wave inside her head.  Stella moved to the gap in the _Endeavour's_ rail, trying to get to the sea as Calypso wanted, but hands held her back.  "Let go!" she cried, scrabbling at the rail and trying to get down to the ocean.  "Let go!  She wants me to come to her, she's asking for me, let me go!"

"Mrs. N, stop it!  Are you mad?"

"Stella, come away!"

_Stella, listen._

Stella paused on her hands and knees, stopping her efforts to throw herself off the ship.  "I’m listening," she whispered.  Indeed, it was not possible to do anything else—Calypso's voice inside her mind resonated like a massive bell, the sepulchral tones of which vibrated down into her very bones.  It was almost painful, and impossible to ignore.

_Help me.   Help me brew a storm, Stella.  Brew me a storm to match the fury I will raise in the sea._

"I will," Stella promised, still half-hanging off the ship, restrained only by the hands of Captain Groves and her midshipmen.  "I will."

_You have my favour, Stella.  I will not visit my fury upon the ships of your fleet.  And you, child, will see your husband again before the day is out._

"Thank you," Stella whispered, overcome with emotion as her eyes began to tear.  "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

_Now brew my storm, and make it spin like my maelstrom.  I will unleash my fury on all._

And then the roaring, bone-jarring presence was gone from Stella's mind, and she came back to herself, shaking and almost crying from both the intensity of the conversation with the goddess, and from the knowledge that Calypso would bring back her husband.  She'd see James again, soon; all she had to do was brew a storm.  And with the way she was feeling now, that would be no hardship at all.

She let Groves help her back to her feet.  "What the blazes was that?" the captain of the _Endeavour_ demanded.

"A power not seen for many, many years, speaking to me," Stella breathed.  "One of the last of the great ones, Captain, who gave me a task to fulfil and granted me that which I have desired above all things."

Groves clearly wasn't sure what to make of that, and just seemed relieved that she was no longer trying to hurl herself off the ship.  He went over to speak with Beckett once he was satisfied that she was safe in the hands of her midshipmen.  Stella let her eyes follow his path to where Beckett was seating himself at his prim little table on deck, intending to take tea as though they weren't about to go into battle.  Of course, Beckett meant for the _Dutchman_ to fight all comers, keeping his own prized ship out of the line of fire as much as he could.

"We have a favourable wind, sir," Groves remarked pleasantly, although he was unable to hide his nervousness as he glanced back over at Stella, who was watching them without blinking.

"Oh, so we do," Beckett agreed, also casting his eyes over at her as he doctored his tea, clearly taking for granted that she was still doing his bidding and directing the wind in his favour.

_You silly, ignorant fool,_ Stella thought viciously.  _I'm dancing to another's tune now, and I will do as she wills, not you._

And with that, she looked to the sky, and poured out all her anger, frustration, anguish, and misery into the wind, letting the weather reflect the emotions she'd kept penned up for far, far too long.

* * *

 

A storm was blowing up from nowhere as the pirate fleet hoisted their colours, crying out in defiance against Beckett and howling their belligerence to the sky, which was beginning to cloud over.  James felt the winds shifting and saw the clouds gathering at an unnatural speed, and knew it was Stella at work.

"The wind's on our side, boys, that's all we need!" Gibbs cried out gleefully.

Was it truly on their side, James wondered.  Did Stella know he was alive, and was directing the winds in a way that would be favourable to both the pirates and the armada?  Because the wind was swirling in just such a fashion, like an incipient cyclone.  Was that so the winds might benefit both fleets gathered today, or had Stella lost her temper and decided to create a cyclone and destroy everyone?

"Stella," he said aloud as the wind blew across his face, knowing that sometimes she could hear the voices of distant people on the wind.  He didn't know if he was too far away at the moment to be heard thusly, but he had to try.  "Stella, I'm here.  I'm coming, I promise."

* * *

 

_Stella, I'm here.  I'm coming, I promise._

Stella heard James' voice on the winds as she stirred the air for the storm Tia... Calypso wanted.  She poured herself into the turbulence of the storm she was creating under Calypso's direction, focussing the eye of her nascent cyclone over a particular patch of ocean where the goddess was brewing a maelstrom.  She was not to allow the cyclone to actually link the ocean and the sky, of course; Calypso didn't want to destroy the ships that way, and Stella didn't really want to destroy the ships at all.  But it would still be a marvellous tempest between the two of them, witch and goddess, and a tempest which few would ever forget.

And then Stella heard her husband speaking to her, and rejoiced.  Calypso would keep her promise and return her husband to her.

"I know, James," she whispered back, feeling her heart swell with love for her absent husband.  She loved him so much it almost hurt, especially when paired with the joy she felt at knowing he would be soon returned to life and the anger she felt at everyone and everything keeping them apart.  "I know."

Then her pleasant reverie was most unhappily intruded upon.  "Do I want to know what you're doing?"

Stella didn't turn to look at Beckett, but instead kept her focus on the storm, pouring her fury into the dark clouds and the chilly winds instead of unloading it onto the man behind her.  "What does it look like I'm doing?" she sneered.

"It looks as though you're creating a massive cyclone.  May I ask why, when I specifically ordered you to direct the winds favourably to the armada?" Beckett inquired coldly, sounding as though he wished to do nothing more than to beat her until she bled.  He held back, of course, knowing that Stella would no longer permit such violence.

"I have orders from a higher power than you," Stella informed him contemptuously.  She tore her attention away from her storm to meet Beckett's eyes and smile at him, though it was more of a snarl than anything else.  "Calypso is free, Cutler."

"Superstitious nonsense," Beckett immediately dismissed, though his hands twitched nervously.

Stella laughed derisively.  "Strange that you should say that," she scoffed.  "Calypso is as real as Davy Jones or the _Flying Dutchman_ —both of which belong to her, if I'm not mistaken.  And I take her orders now, not yours.  She wants a storm, and that's what I'll give her.  It'll go nicely with the maelstrom."

Beckett startled.  Clearly, he hadn't expected any new snarls in his little battle between the _Dutchman_ , under his command, and the _Black Pearl_ , under Elizabeth Swann's.  _Are you now seeing and understanding how little control you truly have?_ Stella thought maliciously.   But he looked out across the ocean incredulously, as though he couldn't possibly believe it. "The what?"

* * *

 

"Maelstrom!"

James heard Gibbs' voice ringing out over the deck, and felt a knot of nervousness settle in his gut.  A cyclone above and a cyclone below; this was going to be a bloody difficult battle, especially since he had vowed not to harm any company sailors unless he couldn't possibly help it (Mercer was in a category of his own; if James could find him, he'd definitely have a go at Mercer).  He would only harm Jones' cursed crew—especially since they'd be able to get up and walk it off within hours.  But to choose his opponents thusly, in the middle of the rain and wind whilst the ship sailed on the edge of a massive maelstrom—because Elizabeth wasn't altering course, oh no, she was ordering Barbossa to man the helm and keep them on course straight ahead—was going to make it just that much more difficult.  He could only hope that he would live to keep his promise to Stella.

He put all other thoughts out of his mind as the battle began, with cannon volleys flying back and forth between the two ships as they perched on the edge of the most massive maelstrom he'd ever seen, and the storm raged on above them.  He thought of nothing beyond living through this fight.  Sometimes the marines from the _Dutchman_ saw him, and came to his side—mostly the older ones who'd been with him at Isla de Muerta.  Mostly, James just cut his way through the _Dutchman's_ crew, and did his best to stay alive.

He witnessed the long-awaited marriage of Elizabeth Swann and William Turner, and felt nothing but a pang of longing for his own wife and a slight tickle of amusement that their wedding was taking place in a battle and being officiated by Barbossa, of all people.  However, he soon directed his attention back to where it needed to be, and thought of nothing more but living and keeping his marines in a tight phalanx around him, thankful for their loyalty and the fact that he wouldn't have to worry about needing to kill them to keep himself safe, or fret about someone else killing the men he still thought of as under his command.  (Had he been able to notice, he would've seen that all of them wore the black star of the Greek Fire.)

James remained on the _Black Pearl_ throughout the battle.  He was not on the _Dutchman_ to witness the coalescence of Jack Sparrow's plan regarding Davy Jones' heart, nor to see the reunion between Turners elder and younger.  It took Bootstrap Turner a few moments to realise that the man he was fighting was, in fact, his son (and only after Will mentioned stars and the Greek Fire); however, once he did, the two of them, father and son, fought together, cutting a swathe as best they could across the _Dutchman's_ deck.  (It was, however, probably a good thing that James hadn't been on the galleon to witness any of the aforementioned; the erstwhile Admiral was justifiably furious with Bootstrap Bill Turner, and might not have been able to keep focussed (or appropriately restrained) had he encountered the man in battle.)

Nor was James able to witness the final resolution of Will Turner's inevitable fate.  Had he been there, he would've done his best to save Turner the younger, if only for Elizabeth, and he would've been slain by Davy Jones before being revived by Calypso and returned to Stella.  James wasn't there, however, and Davy Jones was able to fight off Bill Turner and Elizabeth Turner long enough to stab Will Turner, before Jack Sparrow intervened and helped Will stab the heart of Davy Jones, thus taking his place, as was destined.

He was, however, very aware when the _Dutchman_ began to lose its battle to stay free of the maelstrom, since the _Black Pearl's_ mast was tangled in the _Dutchman's_ rigging.  The deck tilted at an even more extreme angle, and he could hear the groaning of the timbers as he scrabbled for purchase on the slick deck, eventually finding purchase and steadying himself with one of the ratlines. He also grabbed the collar of one of the marines fighting with him before he could tumble off the ship, swinging the other man around and helping him find a better position between a barrel and a cannon.  The man gave him a thankful smile through the deluge, and James nodded briskly before turning his eyes to the _Dutchman_ , trying to locate Elizabeth.

"She's takin' us down!" he heard Barbossa roar.  "Make quick, or it's the locker for us all!"

James wasn't sure how they managed to get the _Pearl_ free; he'd been distracted by one of Jones' crew, and by the time he ran the creature through and kicked it off the ship, the _Black Pearl_ was already sailing away out of the maelstrom while the _Dutchman_ , on the other hand, was being sucked all the way under and consumed by the sea.  He hoped Elizabeth and her new husband managed to get free.

The maelstrom and the storm died down with the same rapidity they'd blown up—which was a good thing, since it seemed Elizabeth and Sparrow managed to escape the _Dutchman's_ ruin by using a sail to make a sort of parachute, and they would've had a harder time of it had Stella's storm still been lashing the ocean.  Meanwhile, once he'd ascertained that Elizabeth hadn't died (he could frankly care less about Sparrow, cousin or not), James went to see to his new entourage.

"Everything all right, gentlemen?" he inquired of the marines which were clustered in a defensive knot around the _Pearl's_ starboard cannons.

"Good to see y'alive, Admiral," replied one of them—a grizzled older marine who had been on Isle de Muerta as well, who was called (if James recalled correctly) John Litton.  "Jones and that bastard Mercer told us you'd been killed."

"Almost," James admitted, rubbing the healing scar on his head.  "I was struck on the head and thrown off the ship.  Had Miss—er, Captain Swann not swum back to save me, I would've drowned."

"Captain Swann?" another sailor repeated incredulously.  "Wot, Miss Elizabeth's a pirate captain now?"

"Worse," James replied, with a kind of grim humour.  "She's the pirate King now."

That made most of the men shake their heads.  At least half of the men could recall the time when Elizabeth Swann was the pampered princess of Port Royal, pinned into pretty gowns and primped to perfection.  To hear now that she was the leader of the pirates was rather strange, though they were able to see for themselves when the crew of the _Black Pearl_ fished her and Sparrow out of the ocean. However, there was something broken in Elizabeth's face, now, and James could wager a good guess about the source of that look.

Will Turner hadn't returned with her.

"Stay close to me," James muttered to the navy men around him.  The way Barbossa was eyeing them made him slightly nervous; the elder captain had always been a little less accepting of the alliance with the Greek Fire.  James knew Elizabeth would speak for him, and his men; however, she was also grieving.  He'd choose his moment.

"Why are we fighting with the pirates, sir?" Litton asked lowly, glaring around him at the ship.  No doubt he remembered the _Black Pearl's_ attack on Port Royal, and later the assault on the _Dauntless_.

"Because Beckett is the greater enemy," James replied intensely.  "For everything he's done to me and my wife... for what he did to Governor Swann—Beckett had him murdered, did you know?—we must bring him down."

"He murdered old Swann?" a younger sailor asked in a hushed, horrified whisper.  The navy generally regarded Governor Swann as a harmless old duffer, who had the good sense to stand back and let those with more experienced officers run things (the direct opposite of Beckett, pretty much).  Swann was a kindly fellow, if not too sharp, and to find that he'd been murdered was an awful blow.

"Yes,"  James confirmed darkly.  "And I recently learned he's been beating my wife as well."

"But Mrs. Norrington's with child!" another sailor pointed out, appalled.

"Apparently that makes no difference to Beckett," James snarled.  "I'll see him cast down all the way to hell if need be for what he's done to my family."

"We're with you, sir," Litton promised, glancing around at the other naval sailors and seeing them nod in affirmation.

"Thank you," James said quietly.  He was aware of the great sacrifice these men were making, having made it himself—one principle for another.

"So what happens now?" the younger sailor who'd asked about Swann inquired, glancing around at the ship and those on it.

"Allow me to find out," James said, moving towards Elizabeth, Jack, and Barbossa.

Gibbs beat him there, sidling up to Sparrow and saying nervously, "Jack, the armada's still out there, the _Endeavour's_ coming up hard to starboard, and I think it's time we embraced that oldest and noblest of pirate traditions..."  He trailed off, implying that they should turn tail and run.

James was indignant.  "We can't run now," he hissed.  "What about the Greek Fire?  What about Stella?" he demanded.

Jack shrugged a little and patted his sodden arm.  "Never actually been one for tradition," he remarked.  "And don't fret, cousin; we'll not leave your lady to Beckett's dubious care," he added, grinning when James cringed at the appellation of 'cousin'.   Jack then turned to shout orders to his crew. "Luff the sails and lay on iron!"

"Belay that, or we'll be a sitting duck," Barbossa roared back.

"Belay that 'belay that'!" Jack snapped back, getting into an extremely childish argument with Gibbs.

James rolled his eyes, and, reassured that they wouldn't be fleeing, sought out Elizabeth.  "Are you all right?" he asked her quietly.

Elizabeth looked up at him with miserable brown eyes.  "Will... he..." was all she managed before she choked up and was unable to speak further.

"I'm sorry," he said honestly, putting a hand on her shoulder.  And he was.  He hadn't liked Will Turner for a very long time, but he could acknowledge the man's virtues (and he did have them).  Furthermore, he'd never have wished the pain of losing a beloved spouse on Elizabeth—especially considering how long she'd waited to marry her blacksmith-turned-pirate.

"I'll grieve later," Elizabeth said, stiffening her spine and glaring across the sea to the Endeavour, which was coming up fast.  "When we've killed the one responsible, then I'll grieve."

Seeing the steel in her eyes and the rage in her voice, James thought that today would be a very bad day to be Cutler Beckett.

 


	44. Stella Dimicationis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Greek Fire is lit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe the rest of these are all from 2010... man, that was almost 7 years ago! I feel old.
> 
> And I believe the majority of the final chapters were written while cat-sitting, sharing a couch with Mr Fuzzi and Tripoli the Pudge-Pot (who, as she was missing a foot, had a sort of peg-leg stump much like a pirate herself. She was also a wonderful, friendly, snuggly, funny kitty who has since shuffled off her mortal coil. Alas for Tripoli!).
> 
> _A/N: I'm pumping these out pretty fast again.  Then again, I did have about a week off work to write them.  Had me a Pirates marathon, too._
> 
> _This is a chapter I suspect many of you have been looking forward to, so enjoy!_

 

Stella felt oddly drained as she quieted the skies after the maelstrom ended.  Perhaps it was the effort that had been required of her to brew the storm, even with Calypso's help; perhaps it was also the release that came from pouring everything out into the sky and having it reflect her feelings.

"Mrs. N, we have to go below now," Mr. Parker insisted, tugging on her arm.  "We're going to engage the pirates soon, and you can't be up here."

Stella ignored him and remained where she was, keeping focussed on Beckett.  Something else had happened during the storm—something that she'd hadn't been aware of, concentrating as she had been on the storm.  But she could now see a death's head overlaid upon Beckett's face, a skull in place of his pallid features, and knew that his time was running out.  And she didn't want to miss her chance of seeing Beckett get his comeuppance.

"What is he waiting for?" Groves wondered from his place at Beckett's left, staring out over the ocean.

The skull spoke with Beckett's voice.  "He actually expects us to honour our agreement," he remarked amusedly.  "Nothing personal, Jack..." Beckett murmured to himself, unaware that Stella was listening in, "it's just good business."

_Good business_ , Stella scoffed, glaring hatefully across the deck.  _This 'good business' is nothing more than self-serving opportunism, completely without honour or charity.  And it will get you killed, Beckett.  Today._   It made her pleased to see the death's head omen overlying Beckett's features, especially since she'd witnessed the same portent on poor Weatherby Swann before his murder.  _What goes around comes around, Cutler.  And here it comes_.

_The Flying Dutchman_ re-emerged from the ocean, and Stella turned to look, since it tickled her senses in a different way.  She fished great-grandmother Isabella's glass from her bodice, where it still hung from a cord around her neck, and peered through it at the galleon.  And even as she watched, she could see Davy Jones' clinging malevolence falling away, replaced by the purity of the original enchantments... mostly.  There was still the lingering slime of Jones' curse, which had activated once its maker was replaced and would no doubt cause more suffering in the years ahead.  But the important thing was that the _Dutchman_ was no longer under Jones' command, and thus had escaped Beckett's control.

Beckett didn't seem to be aware; "Ah, she survived," he remarked, sounding pleased, utterly ignorant of the fact that he'd just lost his control of the seas.

She recalled the prophesy she'd made, the day she'd delved into Black Magic.  _The day the_ Flying Dutchman _escapes your control is the day you die, Cutler Beckett. You will see all that you worked for slip through your fingers, and you will be slain by one whom you've wronged._  Today was that day, it seemed, and so Stella threw back her head and laughed.

She was aware that most of the crew (including her four midshipmen) thought she was insane or having some kind of hysterical breakdown, that the loss of her husband and the stress of the impending battle had driven her around the bend.  But she couldn't stop herself from rejoicing, though no one knew the cause; today was the day of her deliverance, and she was too mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausted to pretend to be anything other than euphoric.

"Madam, are you unwell?" Beckett inquired coldly, as her laughter drew his attention.

"No indeed, Lord Beckett, I am extremely well," Stella giggled, feeling another wash of glee as her eyes discerned the skull under Beckett's skin, made visible to her gaze as his death drew closer.

"Then perhaps you might cease cackling like an upended fowl," Beckett suggested acidly.

Stella just smiled—a smile which grew wider and turned into an open, happy, slightly-unhinged beam when she saw the colours the _Black Pearl_ , now within firing distance of the _Endeavour_ and keeping pace with the _Flying Dutchman_ , was now flying.  The _Pearl_ had raised a flag of a pale grey cloth, bearing upon it the sign of a five-pointed black star.

Captain Groves started, upon seeing the sign of the Greek Fire, and looked over at her.  Stella turned her brilliant smile on him, and just said, "It's time," letting the wind convey her voice right to his ears.  "Light the fire, captain.  It's time."

Groves nodded to her, before stepping away and yelling, "Those of the Greek Fire, to me!  To arms!"

The deck devolved into chaos.  Half the crew immediately separated and rushed to Groves' side.  Stella herself was surrounded by her four midshipmen, who were bristling and looking ready to tear apart anyone who looked at them wrong.  They pushed and pulled her behind Groves' lines; the captain himself had entrusted them with her safety when she first came aboard, and the four of them meant to fulfil their charge.

Beckett stood, confused, in the middle of the deck, watching half his crew form a line in the middle-to-stern of the ship.  The rest of the crew milled around uncertainly, moving slowly to congregate around Beckett, waiting for orders which weren't coming and not quite understanding what was happening.  Nor did they have any further time to assimilate, since the _Black Pearl_ and the _Flying Dutchman_ pulled up right alongside the port and starboard sides, respectively, and a hoard of pirates and sailors (for the _Dutchman's_ crew were no longer twisted amalgamations of sea life and men) swung over onto the _Endeavour_.

"Greek Fire!" the pirates shouted.  "Norrington and the Greek Fire!"

Norrington?  Stella turned her gaze to the rail closest to the _Pearl_ , and felt suddenly as though she could fly.  Because there, standing on the rail of the _Endeavour_ with an emerald-green sash tied around the admiral's coat she'd sewed for his wedding present was Admiral James Edward Norrington.  He was alive and well, surrounded by a coterie of marines he'd apparently taken off the _Dutchman_ before she foundered.  She lost sight of him for a time as the Greek Fire surged forth and battled for control of the _Endeavour_ , but she didn't forget what she'd seen.  Her husband was alive again, and he had come for her.

She couldn't stop smiling, even as bullets started flying and her midshipmen forced her to duck for cover behind a cannon.  Though her very life was in danger, too many good things had happened to bring down her mood.

"Stella!  Stella!"

There was the voice she loved best in all the world, calling out for her above the din of the battle.  Stella lifted her head from where she cowered and screamed, "James!"

And then he was there, vaulting over the cannon and wrapping her up in his arms.  Stella clutched at his shoulders and buried her face in his chest, breathing in deeply and revelling, for however long she could, in the smell and the feel and the sense of her husband.  For months they had been kept apart from one another, by Beckett's machinations and their own baggage, but now it all fell away.  Nothing mattered but the fact that they were both alive, and together again.

"James," Stella whimpered into his shirt.

"Hello, Stella," James replied, smoothing a hand over her hair before he tilted her chin up to face him, and kissed her.

James had never kissed her like this before—like he was pouring his whole self into it.   They'd kissed each other before, of course, (though never since the recent revelation of Stella's feelings) but it had always been relatively dispassionate and distant, in a way, with both parties aware that the others' true heart was either elsewhere or unavailable.  This, however, was nothing like that.  It was passionate and intense and loving.

Once he broke the kiss, James pulled her up and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her over to a line near the port rail near the stern of the ship, well away from the main part of the battle.  Stella didn't protest, even though the pressure was painful, due to the bruises.  And what James said next utterly drove the pain from her mind anyway.  "I love you," he declared intensely, leaning down to press another brief but ardent kiss to her lips.  "I love you, and I'm sorry it took me so long to realise.  But now I need you to go over to the _Pearl_ and stay out of this.  Murtogg!  Mullroy!  Take Mrs. Norrington over to the _Pearl_ and protect her with your lives if need be!" he barked.

"Wait!  I can help!" Stella protested, not wanting to be separated from her husband now that he'd come back to her.  She didn't want anything to harm him, since she'd given up so much to have him back; she could... she could... well, there was surely something she could do!

"Stella, you're battered and exhausted and nearly ready to bear our child," James informed her gently, cupping her cheek and using his thumb to stroke her skin.  "This is no place for you right now, and I need to know you're safe.  Please, go."

Stella heaved a sigh, but took hold of the rope.  "I love you," she said in farewell, as the two marines her husband had charged with her protection picked her up and swung over to the Pearl, with her four midshipmen loyally following after.  Swinging over between ships was one of more uncomfortable things she'd had to do in a long time.  Between her massive belly and her bruises, the indelicate men dragging her along, the dizzying moment when she was sure she wasn't going to be able to cling to the rope and worried she'd end up falling into the ocean below, and the uncomfortable roughness of the rope on her soft hands, Stella arrived on the deck of the _Black Pearl_ considerably frazzled.

So it was rather unfortunate that the first person she encountered was Jack Sparrow.

"Ah, cousin!  You're here!" Sparrow crowed cheerfully.  "With an entourage!  Don't you fret, we'll keep you and your lads safe as houses."

"What did you just call me?" Stella asked flatly, glaring at him.

"No time, coz," Sparrow replied, taking the line and swinging over to the _Endeavour_ before Stella could press him about what the devil he was calling her "cousin" for.

"Come this way, Mrs. Norrington," Murtogg bid her politely, ushering her towards the quarterdeck.

"We'll protect you, Mrs. N," Mr. MacDonald promised her, the four of them so close to her that they were nearly treading on her skirts.  They were afraid, and trying to stay brave for her was one of the only things keeping at least MacDonald, Clark, and Parker together.  Mr. Sewall was looking at all of this as a grand adventure, trotting alongside with a too-large cutlass he'd brought off the _Endeavour_.

"Ah, Mrs. Norrington," drawled Captain Barbossa, swaggering up to her.  "Welcome aboard me humble vessel."

"Captain Barbossa," Stella acknowledged thinly.  "You're looking well for a man returned from death."

"Mmm, thank ye," Barbossa replied, studiously not looking at her belly.  "You're radiant as ever, m'dear."

"You might as well tell me I'm massive, Hector; I already know," Stella snapped in annoyance, peevish that she'd been taken away from her husband and that Sparrow was calling her cousin.  He wasn't lying, either; Stella could feel the truth of it.  She and Jack Sparrow were kin.

She wasn't sure how, exactly, they were related, but she knew the truth of it.  It would certainly explain Sparrow's luck—she'd often thought it was nearly supernatural; now, it seemed it was.  If they shared blood, then that was how the magic had chosen to express itself—magic, which was as much an inheritance for Mirela's descendants as the dark eyes which all of Stella's foremothers (and Jack) shared.

Bother.  As if her connections weren't suspect enough.

"And as sweet-tempered as ever," Barbossa added, with a stained grin he probably thought was charming and only a little bit of sarcasm.

"I'm a married woman now, Hector," Stella said dryly, settling down on the stairs to the quarterdeck and staring out across at the _Endeavour_ , where she could see the puffs of smoke from pistol fire and hear the ring and crash of swords.  The ship was not yet taken, and her husband was over there in the middle of it.  "Your charm is wasted on me."

"Ah, it always was, witchling," Barbossa said, amused, stumping down to stand next to her on the stair where she sat.  "Else I'd have charmed ye onto me ship years ago."

Stella just snorted absently, rubbing her belly as her eyes remained locked on the _Endeavour_.   She was distantly aware of more ships in the armada—one of which was Isaac's—hoisting the colours of the Greek Fire and setting sail towards the _Endeavour_.  But all her attention remained on the ship which carried her husband.  Her fear, which had so briefly left her, returned full-force.

Her husband had come back to her as Calypso promised, yes... but for how long?

* * *

 

James saw Murtogg and Mullroy safely bear Stella over to the _Pearl_ before turning back to the battle near the bow.  He'd seen his wife to safety and told her he loved her; if he died today, he would at least die without those regrets on his conscience.  Not that he wanted to die, of course.  But if he did, there'd be a measure of peace in knowing that Sparrow would take care of his cousin (if only to get that family discount he seemed to want so much, and to ensure that said cousin didn't castrate him) and that Stella knew that her husband did indeed return her feelings.

He was also glad that the four young midshipmen—the youngest of those on the _Endeavour_ —had followed Stella without being asked.  Battle was no place for young men whose voices hadn't even changed yet, especially not a battle as morally uncertain as this one.  Better that those young men keep themselves out of it, at least for now.  They could blood themselves later, on pirates instead of fellow crewmembers.

He flung himself back into the struggle for control of the _Endeavour_ , carried along on a tide of adrenaline and excitement. Though Beckett's partisans were putting up a good enough fight, they were being overwhelmed by superior numbers; the Greek Fire, plus the pirates, plus the _Dutchman's_ crew (now free of the marine life and sea garbage that had clung to them before) was a much larger force than the remaining sailors who remained with Beckett.  And the latter were becoming fewer and fewer, anyway; many sailors were surrendering outright (to the Greek Fire, anyway) or defecting, especially when they saw that both Captain Groves and the resurrected Admiral were leading the mutiny.

Beckett himself was of no use at all.  What few glimpses James could get of the man as he wove through the fighting, wanting nothing more than to get at the dishonourable aristocrat and pay back some of the pain he'd visited on the Norrington family, were of Beckett pale and gasping, staring around him with huge, uncomprehending eyes.  He gave no orders, nor fought for himself; he only fell further and further back, cowering in the shadow of Lieutenant Greitzer.

James Norrington wasn't the only one out for Beckett's blood, either.  Elizabeth Swann cut a swath through the men who stood in her way, carving a bloody path towards the man she'd sworn to kill.  Jack Sparrow (whom James thought to be on the _Pearl_ ) was also ducking and weaving through the seething mêlée, making his way as best he could towards his erstwhile friend with an uncharacteristically grim look on his swarthy face.  The new captain of the _Flying Dutchman_ was also attempting to get to Beckett, though whether that was due to his own desire for vengeance or because his new wife was making a beeline thereto was anyone's guess.  But all of them were out for blood.

* * *

 

Cutler Beckett was more afraid at this moment in time than he'd ever been in his life.  There was a mutiny aboard his very own vessel which seemed to have swallowed the majority of his crew and was taking place far too close to his person for comfort.  He'd seen James Norrington leading the charge, and knew his Admiral was coming to pay him back for everything he'd done to the man and his wife.  He'd seen Elizabeth Swann cutting through marines to get to him, and knew she was going to do her very best to avenge her father.  And he'd seen Will Turner commanding the _Flying Dutchman_ , the crew of which had changed from monsters back into men, and knew that Jones had passed (and likely Mercer with him, since his demonic henchman was nowhere to be seen).  Turner had stabbed the Heart of Davy Jones and taken control of the ship in Jones' stead, removing the ship and control of the sea from Beckett's hands.

The latter was that which scared him the most.  He remembered Stella's prophesy, the day after the false report of Admiral Norrington's death, that the day the _Dutchman_ left his control was the day he died at the hands of someone whom he'd wronged.  Well, the _Dutchman_ was now under Turner's command, and there were at least three people on the ship at the moment whom he'd wronged, one of whom was fighting her way towards him with a naked sword in hand and rage in her eyes.

He was afraid; he didn't want to die!  Not today, not when he'd come so close to winning!  It was unfair!  And he didn't want to know how Swann or Norrington or Turner would choose to kill him—while Beckett imagined Norrington and Turner would slay him swiftly, falling into the hands of Swann would be worse, especially when he considered the humiliation of dying on the sword of a woman.

A gunshot rang out, and splintered the rail nearest his right hand.  Beckett cried out in fear and pain from the splinters, and scrambled away, clutching at his bleeding hand.  "Keep back, my Lord!" Lieutenant Greitzer warned him.  While he appreciated Greitzer's loyalty (he was one of the only officers who hadn't joined the mutiny), Beckett wondered how much further back they could expect him to go.  They were already pressed against the forecastle and couldn't retreat much further without leaping off the ship.

That was something Beckett considered, though, since a moment later Greitzer had been run through, and lay before him on the deck, writhing in pain and choking on his own blood.  Beckett gasped in horror and cringed back, staring fearfully at the woman before him, splattered with blood and glaring at him with burning dark eyes.  She drew her pistol and shot dead the marine who rushed up to try and protect him, and then moved to fence fiercely with another loyal company sailor.

But Beckett noticed, as he pressed himself up against the rail at the bow, that there were very few loyal sailors left; most of them were occupied fending off Sparrow, who'd come out of nowhere, Turner, Norrington, and the mutineers.  And now Swann was approaching him with blood dripping from her blade and a look of grim promise etched on her lovely face.

Beckett decided to cut his losses, and turned to fling himself off the ship.  But before he could do anything other than sling a leg over the rail, a hand grabbed his arm and jerked him back onto the ship.  He landed flat on his back on the deck, staring up at the unforgiving faces of Elizabeth Swann and Jack Sparrow, the latter of whom had pulled him away from his escape into the sea, with the point of their swords pressing into the tender flesh of his neck.  He was breathing rapidly, and could feel his fear like an icy knot in his gut.

A cold sweat broke out over his body, and Beckett looked imploringly up at Jack.  "Please don't kill me!" he whimpered.  "Please, I beg you, don't kill me!"

"Would you have been so merciful to us?" Swann demanded scornfully, pressing her sword painfully into his neck.

"Jack, please!" Beckett cried.  "For everything... Jack, please!"

Jack just shook his head and turned away, leaving him utterly at the mercy of Elizabeth Swann.  Beckett sobbed tearlessly in fear, and Swann sneered at him.  "You're a coward, Beckett," she said scornfully.  "This is for my father."  And then she stabbed down, burying her blade in his chest.

Beckett could only gasp in surprise at the sharp pain which radiated out from his chest. He'd heard that peoples' lives flashed before their eyes as they died, but he got no such viewing.  All he knew was the overwhelming pain and the creeping cold as the edges of his vision went slowly dark.

* * *

 

And then the battle was over; the _Endeavour_ was taken.  The flag of the Greek Fire was run up the mast, striking the East India Trading Company colours, and Lord Beckett lay dead on the forecastle.  A great cacophony of cheers went up, which Stella could hear all the way over on the _Black Pearl_ (though, to be fair, they were moored fairly closely to the late Lord Beckett's flagship) and to which she added her own voice, screaming her triumph to the skies.

She was free.  Beckett was dead, her husband was alive—she could see him, perched on the rail near the helm, surrounded by cheering sailors—and she was free.  She laughed and threw her arms up to the heavens, exulting in her good fortune as her four midshipmen cheered and danced around, pumping their fists and embracing her, one at a time.  Even Murtogg and Mullroy were shouting in glee.

They were all so very happy to be free of Beckett and victorious in the taking of the flagship that none of them—not even the usually-canny Stella—noticed that Barbossa had collected a handful of pirates and was creeping up behind them.

Stella had no notion that anything was awry until a sharp blow to her head rendered her unconscious.  She collapsed into the arms of Barbossa, who then pointed the pistol he'd used to knock her out at the tiny knot of her protectors.

This interaction caught the attention of Murtogg, Mullroy, Parker, Clark, Sewall, and MacDonald, and they all whirled to face the pirates, all of whom were now pointing pistols and blades at them with threatening looks on their dirty faces.  "What are you doing?" Mr. Sewall demanded, making a move to brandish his cutlass—at least, until a pirate gestured significantly with a pistol and made the boy drop his hand.

"Apologies, my lads," Barbossa said cheerily, but without so much as a waver in the pistol he held on them.  "But we're takin' all of ye captive.  Be on your best behaviour, and ye'll come out of this with nary a scratch," he promised, hefting Stella's body higher in his grasp.  "Now, best be givin' me those weapons."

The four midshipmen looked helplessly at Stella, still unconscious, then over at Murtogg and Mullroy, who gulped, looked at one another, then sighed and handed over their muskets.  An example thus set, most of the boys handed over their weapons to the pirates with a bit of grumbling and a lot of glaring.  Most of the boys, but not all.

"Give it up, Joseph," Mr. Parker muttered to Mr. Sewall, who kept his hand on his cutlass and glowered at the pirate captain, who wore an expression of polite expectation.  "They'll kill us if we don't give in."

"That blackguard just pistol-whipped Mrs. N!" Mr. Sewall snarled quietly.

"And they'll shoot you where you stand if you don't stand down," Mr. MacDonald snapped.

"We can't protect Mrs. N if we're dead, Joe," Mr. Clark pointed out softly.

With a muttered oath that would've had Stella threatening to wash out his mouth with soap, Joseph Sewall unbuckled his blade and tossed it resentfully to the one-eyed pirate waiting to receive it.  "The Admiral will kill you for this," he spat at the smirking pirate captain.

"I don't think he will, lad," Barbossa replied with a stained grin.  He patted Stella's dark, lolling head with a scarred hand and smirked at the glowering sailors.  "I've got his wife, after all."

* * *

 

James Norrington jumped down from the rail and sheathed his blade—not the Turner-made blade Beckett had returned to him (apparently it was at the bottom of the ocean, now, and he couldn't help but think it was a good place for it; somehow, he felt that sword was ill-fated or ill-omened, since it brought nothing but bad fortune to its wielders), but a pirate cutlass he'd picked up in Shipwreck Cove.  Once he was firmly planted on the deck, he was embraced strongly by Groves.

"James!" Theodore shouted, trying to be heard over the clamorous adulation of the _Endeavour's_ crew.  "It's marvellous to see you alive—we all thought you were dead!"

"It was a close thing, Theo, but as you see I'm quite well," James replied loudly, grinning widely.

"Ah, we should've known better than to trust Jones," Theodore scoffed, grinning happily in return.  "You always turn up when we least expect it!"  Then he turned to the crew, brandished his blade, and shouted, "The Admiral!"

The crew of the _Endeavour_ roared back in adoration, cheering wildly, and James waved back, touched by the loyalty of his men.  He noticed the crew from the _Dutchman_ discreetly taking their leave, melting away back over to the ghost ship, which seemed much cleaner and brighter than before.  The day itself likewise seemed much brighter, now that Beckett was fallen ( _dead, James_ , he reminded himself, _Beckett is dead.  Elizabeth ran him through as he grovelled on the deck before her_ ).

He set the crew to setting the ship back to rights and collecting the bodies of the dead for a burial at sea while he himself went to speak with Elizabeth, before she followed the rest of the pirates back over to the _Black Pearl_.  James had to make a decision, and quickly.  The pirates were here and he had a massive fleet at his back, ready to destroy them (including at least four ships which were coming up fast to the stern and could be used to overwhelm the _Black Pearl_ in moments).  He could make use of all his hard work and earn back his reputation honestly, doing such a great work in making the seas safe that hopefully everyone (but especially the Admiralty back in London) would forget about his disgrace... and about the fact that he had just mutinied against Lord Beckett... and about the fact that he'd allied with pirates to see his patron cast down.

But in order to do that, he might have to fight against Elizabeth, and therefore against the _Dutchman_ as well, since Will Turner was now captain.  He needed to speak to Elizabeth and find out what her next course of action was going to be, see if perhaps she might be convinced to take the _Pearl_ and leave the battle, leaving him to fight the rest.

But, as it turned out, Elizabeth had no further bearing on his choice.

Before James could give any orders, whether to detain the pirates who were currently on the _Endeavour_ or to let them go, whether to fire upon the _Pearl_ and take it while he could or to let it leave, his attention was caught by someone shouting his name. James sought out the source of the call, and found his eyes drawn to the _Pearl's_ quarterdeck, upon which, in clear sight, was Captain Barbossa... holding the limp and unconscious body of Stella Norrington, and pressing a pistol to her forehead.

James clenched his fists automatically, and heard Theodore gasp beside him in tandem with the mutters from the rest of the crew, which began to cluster around him, separating out from the pirates, all of whom began to swing back over to the _Pearl_ , casting nervous glances back at the glowering masses of sailors and marines.

He understood the message Barbossa was sending him, and cursed himself vehemently for a fool.  He had sent Stella over there, thinking to keep her safe, thinking that Sparrow would watch out for her (and that had clearly been his first mistake, since it seemed Sparrow had swung over to the _Endeavour_ to fight instead of remaining on his ship); instead, it seemed James had unwittingly delivered his wife straight into the hands of the enemy, who had knocked her out and used her, once again, as leverage over him.

James walked slowly to the port rail, staring across at Barbossa, who was grinning at him as the pirate shifted Stella's body enough in his grasp that James could see her face, slack in unconsciousness; he could also see that there were no other marks on her.

"Greetin's, Admiral!" Barbossa called over, as all the pirates left the Endeavour as fast as they could.  "I see ye've noticed the location of yer wife.  She's fine, o'course; just out cold for a bit.  She'll wake with a headache in a few hours, naught more."

"What is it you want, Barbossa?" James asked coldly, clenching his fists around the rail.  He was distantly aware that Elizabeth was still lingering on the _Endeavour_ , but he only had eyes for Stella, and the cur who was keeping her.

"Ye're to take your fleet and sail away, Admiral," Barbossa replied, voice losing some of his charming patina and taking on a more ruthless tone.  "All o' ye, go, and let all us pirates sail off unmolested—every single ship.  In return, I'll see yer lady treated well, and once the Brethren are free and clear, I'll see her—and these men of yourn," he added, gesturing with his head to the six company sailors (including the four young midshipmen), who were being held at gunpoint down on the main deck, "returned to ye unharmed.  Chase us, fire on us, do aught but vanish off o'er the horizon and all seven of 'em die.  Do we have an accord?"

James snarled soundlessly, and pounded his fist on the rail.  He was stuck, and he knew it—they both knew it.  He'd revealed too much to the pirates; they all knew just how much he loved his wife, and that he'd do anything to assure her safety.  Barbossa had chosen the best way possible to render the armada totally useless.

"James?" Theodore asked quietly.

"What else can I do, Theodore?" he asked hopelessly.  "Order the men to fire on the _Pearl_ , and be forced to watch that poxy dog shoot my wife in the head?  I cannot—not after everything I've done to protect her can I watch her murdered now."

"I know, James," Theodore sat, patting his arm swiftly.  "I know.  No man here will blame you for giving in."

James heaved a sigh and did just that, shouting across to the Pearl, "We have an accord!"  He added under his breath, glaring fiercely, "You pestilential old whoreson."

Elizabeth met his eyes across the rail from the _Black Pearl_ , and mouthed _I'm sorry_.  But he turned away angrily.  She was Pirate King; she could've stopped this!  But she didn't. Elizabeth was content to let this happen, content to save her skin and that of her piratical brethren at his expense, and that of his wife.  He'd never before felt so keenly the chasm between their paths, and never been so angry at her about the same, and angry about the light, disdainful way she had always treated him, and his friendship.

He looked out over the decks of the _Endeavour_ and the men thereon, who stared at him with sympathetic, frustrated expressions and glared virulently at the _Black Pearl_ , which was now sailing away from him, once again separating him from his wife, forcing him to leave her in the hands of his enemies while he was powerless to protect her.  Thankfully, as Theodore believed, none of the men seemed to resent him for giving way to the pirates.

_They don't need to._ _I blame myself for putting us all in this situation_ , James thought bitterly.

 


	45. Stella Pacis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a family squabble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N: Moving onward quite rapidly.  I'm rather proud of myself; look at how productive I was!  Sorry I missed the Thursday update, though; I had a long day at work (including an episode where I had to sprint from my bus stop to make the light rail, which I did miss due to the bloody stoplights) and I was too tired when I got home to do anything but faceplant into bed._
> 
> Working retail was bloody terrible, especially since my commute was... like, 2 hours long one way.

 

When Stella Bell awoke, she wished she hadn't.  Her head was pounding painfully, and it felt like someone had hit her in the temple with a hammer.  Thank God the room (was it a room?) she lay in was dim; had it been streaming with sunlight, it might've just killed her.

She groaned painfully and put a hand to her head, shifting position on the bunk.  Instantly, someone was at her side.  "Mrs. N?  Are you all right?"

That was Mr. Clark, and Stella squinted up at him.  "My head hurts abominably," she replied painfully, wincing at the throbbing in her head.  "Is there something to drink?"  Her mouth felt about as dry as the desert.

Mr. Clark nodded, and Mr. Parker soon appeared with a cup, assisting her as she drank what turned out to be stale-tasting water as Mr. Clark helped her sit up.  It turned out that she, and her four midshipmen, and the two marines her husband had ordered to carry her to the _Pearl_ , were all occupying the same room, panelled with dark wood and lit with a few candles.  Outside, Stella could see that it was evening.

She was very confused.  "What happened?  Where are we? Where's James?" she demanded, wincing as her vehemence made her head pound even worse.

"We're on the _Black Pearl_ ," Mr. Parker replied with a scowl.

"What?  Why?" Stella wondered confusedly.

"Barbossa knocked you out," Mr. Sewall explained baldly, coming over to stand by her bunk.  "During the battle for the _Endeavour_.  The Admiral won the day, but to keep him from fighting the pirates afterwards Barbossa knocked you out and told him the fleet had to go away or he'd shoot you."

"That... that..." Stella was so enraged that her massive vocabulary deserted her.  "I'll kill him."

"We're locked in the captain's quarters, Mrs. N," Mr. Clark pointed out.  "And have been for hours.  The armada's long gone."

"So I'm not in a position to be killing anyone, is that it?" Stella asked wryly, tenderly touching the side of her head, since it felt hot and throbbed with the particular sensation which heralded a growing bruise (and that was a feeling she was very familiar with, after spending as much time with Beckett as she had).  "Stars above, what did he hit me with?"

"A pistol, ma'am," Mullroy supplied, coming over with Murtogg, MacDonald, and Parker to see how she did.

"How are you, Mrs. Norrington?" Murtogg asked gently.

"I am rather upset, Mr. Murtogg," Stella replied grimly.  And she was.  She had come so close to having everything she wanted, and then Barbossa snatched it all away!  She should be with her husband right now, safe about the _Endeavour_ with no Beckett to ruin things, on her way back to Jamaica.  But no, because Barbossa wanted to save his own behind in the easiest way, she was a captive again and once more being used as collateral to make James dance to another's tune.

Mr. MacDonald handed her a damp rag, which she used to dab gently at her incipient bruise, the delicacy of her movements at odds with the set of her jaw.  The weather, however, was attuned to her moods, and it reflected her surge of rage with a sudden flash of lightning and a loud crack of thunder.  She briefly toyed with the idea of stirring up another cyclone, but dismissed it immediately; temper aside, it would be the height of stupidity to sink the ship she was currently on.

But the minute she was free, Hector Barbossa would be as sorry as she could make him that he'd dared do this to her.

Her fellow captives—because that was what they all were, captives—took time to tell her what news they had.  Murtogg and Mullroy regaled them with their account of what had happened on the _Dutchman_ during the maelstrom, though their story was unable to tell Stella about that which she most wanted to hear: how Will Turner ended up stabbing the Heart, how Bootstrap Bill fared, and the ultimate fate of Davy Jones.

The night passed without issue; they were left alone in the cabin, and neither captain nor crew came near.  Stella had hoped her dreams would contain useful information or helpful portents, but so exhausted was she that she slept without stirring (save to visit the chamberpot regularly, since her daughter was compressing her bladder).  The next day dawned pleasant, and with a bare remnant of the pounding headache she'd been gifted with the prior afternoon.  They still had some hard tack, water, and three limes, and shared them out for breakfast; it seemed none of the crew were brave enough to enter the cabin and brave Stella's displeasure.

As morning wore on and Murtogg and Mullroy picked up what seemed to be an old, well-worn argument about the sequence of events which brought them aboard the _Black Pearl_ during the maelstrom and the theoretical contributions of the fish-people to their desertion, they were interrupted by a knock on the door.  The men immediately fell silent and moved into a protective shield around Stella, who was still reclining on the bunk.  She wondered idly why the pirate bothered to knock, especially when moments after the knock there came the sound of the door being unlocked, done without any permission or input from the occupants of the cabin.

Stella supposed it was indicative of the strange turns her life had taken when Elizabeth Swann was not the most unwelcome visitor to her prison.  "Miss Swann," Stella greeted thinly.

"Mrs. Turner, actually," Elizabeth corrected, entering the room and approaching the bed, taking the stool that Murtogg brought for her comfort and sitting down upon it.  "I got married."

"Congratulations," Stella said, making a point of not sneering too obviously.  While she disliked Elizabeth, she did think more kindly of William Turner nowadays, and she knew that they had a hard road ahead of them since Will had fallen under the aegis of Jones' last curse, wherein the person who slew him must take his place.  So must Will Turner, sailing the _Dutchman_ and living apart from his new wife.  "I hope—"

"Will's already left to take up his duties," Elizabeth interrupted quietly, resting her elbow on her knee and her chin on her hand, staring levelly up at Stella.  "We had our one day, and now must face ten years apart."

"I'm sorry," Stella replied softly, and earnestly.  And she was sorry—she truly was.  She knew how it felt to be torn away from a beloved spouse by forces beyond one's control.

Elizabeth smiled weakly.  "Thank you.  Mrs. Norrington, I wanted to... to apologise for Captain Barbossa's actions," she said quickly.  "I didn't condone his actions, I want you to know that.  James is a dear friend, and I would never want to hurt him like this."

Stella wanted to challenge Elizabeth about whether or not she condemned the consequences of Barbossa's actions as well, which were doubtless fortuitous in the extreme for the Brethren Court over which this woman ruled, but decided that she might as well bite her tongue.  Too much had passed and too much had been seen (including the soul of the woman in question) for Stella to dislike and scorn Elizabeth as she once had.  And since she was a captive among Elizabeth's subordinates, it might be wise for Stella to attempt a rapprochement.

So she merely replied, "Thank you.  I will not deny that I am fiercely angry with Barbossa; I had thought by now to be reunited with my husband and on my way home."

"I know.  I'm sorry.  Is there anything I can get for your comfort?" Elizabeth asked politely.

"Hector Barbossa's testicles on a platter?" Stella requested sardonically.  Elizabeth stifled a snort, and Stella smirked.  "Thank you, no.  I am well enough for the moment, though I am eager to be released."

"It won't be long; we'll send you back to James within a few days," Elizabeth promised firmly.

"Good," Stella said firmly.  "But make sure the entire crew knows that anything happens to me, or keeps me from my husband... if I am crossed in any manner or they act in any way contrary to my health and happiness... I will do anything and everything in my power to rain down a hail of misfortune on this ship and its entire crew," she promised coldly.  "And they will thus court not only my displeasure but Calypso's as well, for I possess her favour.  Make sure that Barbossa and Sparrow know that to betray me now means death in the worst ways both I and the goddess Calypso can contrive."

"I'll make sure to pass on the message," Elizabeth said, regarding her with wide, wary brown eyes.

Stella could tell that she'd disconcerted the other woman, and thus retired back into her persona as a pregnant lady, letting the witch subside into the background.  "You might also mention to Captains Sparrow and Barbossa that I am very near to my time," she added, rubbing the swell of her belly.  "Should they delay in returning me, they may find me giving birth to my daughter on board."

"That might affright them even worse than the threat of death and displeasure," Elizabeth remarked amusedly.

Stella smirked.  Had things been different, she might have been good friends with Elizabeth Swann.  As things were, she might be able to regard the woman with tolerance.  At least Elizabeth had apologised for the actions of her fellows, and promised to help her get back to her husband.  They understood each other, Elizabeth and Stella, as two married women mired in this matter, but their relationship would probably never go any further than that.

At least James would be proud of her civility.

"Mrs. Turner," Stella began tentatively, knowing she must speak about this but knowing it was also a very painful subject.  "I... grew close to your father during your absence.  He was very kind to me—he gave me away at my wedding, even—and I loved him well.  But he..."

"I know he's dead," Elizabeth interrupted softly.  "I saw him, when we fetched Jack from the locker."

"Was he... was he all right, insofar as someone dead can be termed thusly?" Stella asked, equally soft.

"He was at peace," Elizabeth whispered, ducking her head to hide the tears blooming in her dark eyes.

Stella had to bite back tears of her own, though she was relieved to know that Weatherby was resting in peace.  But she missed him.  "That's good, I suppose.  Given the manner of his... Mercer murdered him," she blurted, feeling the sting of the remembered anguish.  "I didn't see it happen, but I saw what came after."

"Mercer is dead," Elizabeth said, with a vicious pleasure.

"How?" Stella wondered, startled.  She knew what Mercer was, and how fiendishly difficult it was to kill one of his ilk.  One had to destroy the eyes, first, and then the brain.  Any blows to the rest of him would do nothing, which was why it was so difficult to kill such a demonically-animated being.  Who had known that, and been able to vanquish Mercer thusly?

"Jones, apparently," Elizabeth shrugged, sounding annoyed.

Stella supposed Elizabeth was vexed with having to feel grateful to the creature who'd good-as-killed her husband for killing the creature who had murdered her father.  For her own part, Stella acknowledged that Jones would've had knowledge enough to know how to slay Mercer.  At least Beckett's pet murderer had been sent back to the hellfire from whence he'd been spawned.

"At least they're both dead," Stella muttered vindictively.

"Agreed.  Oh!"  Elizabeth perked up, suddenly, and dug in her pouch for something.  "Bootstrap Turner asked Will who asked me to deliver this to you," she explained, fishing out a letter.

Stella smiled.  Bootstrap was free from Jones' malice now, free to sail with the son whom he had barely known and take back the time that was stolen from them.  "Thank you," she said gratefully, taking the letter from Elizabeth.  She unfolded the letter and read it quickly (at least, as quickly as she could decipher Bill's atrocious handwriting).  When she finished, she had but one question.  "He threw James off the _Dutchman_?!"

Elizabeth winced a little.  "Yes."

Stella frowned.  "At least he apologises," she grumbled.  Indeed, Bill did apologise for throwing her husband off the _Dutchman_ , excusing himself by saying he hadn't been in quite his right mind and had just seen her husband kiss another woman.  "And I understand James kissed you."

That actually made Elizabeth blush and look uncomfortable.  "I think it was more about farewell than anything else," she demurred, looking down at her hands where they were knotted in her lap.  "I doubt it meant much to either of us.  I never felt that way for James, and James... well, he loves you now, and not me."

"For a long time it was the other way around," Stella commented quietly, looking back down at her letter.  She wanted to be angry with her husband about kissing Elizabeth Swann, knowing that whatever Elizabeth said it had doubtless meant something to James... but then again, Stella wasn't exactly lily-white innocent in the matter, either.  She'd let Bootstrap Bill kiss her the day she left the _Dutchman_ , after all.  Two adulterous kisses, one for each spouse; Stella decided she'd call it square and put both out of her mind.

Elizabeth didn't seem to know what to say to that, and fell silent as Stella perused the rest of her letter.  It was mostly a farewell, with Bill writing about how grateful he was to her for the star she'd made him, since it had helped him immeasurably after she'd left; how he'd miss her but hoped that she'd have a happy, fulfilling life; how he was going to crew the _Dutchman_ under his son's command to try and pay his debt; and how he was sorry he'd thrown her husband off the _Dutchman_ and how glad he was that James had survived.  Thankfully, there were no awkward declarations of love; just a farewell between friends who never expected to see each other again.

"I'm glad he's free from Jones' malice," Stella eventually said, folding the letter back up and tucking it into her pocket.  "I worried for him."

"So did I," Elizabeth agreed.

Stella looked over at Elizabeth levelly for a moment, weighing and measuring.  It was strange, the links between the two of them—not only through James, but through fathers as well—through Weatherby Swann and Bill Turner.  It might almost mean something.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Elizabeth wondered warily.

"Just pondering the men who tied us together, though we were unknowing of it," Stella replied.  "James, your father, your father-in-law.  I daresay it almost makes us family."

"You never liked me, though," Elizabeth noted astutely.

"You were the woman James loved instead of me," Stella said bluntly.  "Of course I didn't like you."

Elizabeth smiled wryly.  "That's what James said when the subject came up."

Stella smirked fondly.  "We know each other well, it seems."

"I don't doubt it," Elizabeth agreed.  She smiled warmly.  "I'm so glad he found you," she added earnestly.  "He was always a good man... I could just never love him the way I love Will.  But I never wanted to hurt him—I never wanted him to waste away pining for me.  So I'm glad he found a woman whom he loves, and who loves him."

There was nothing Stella could say to that.  So she lowered her eyes, and smiled.  And so there was peace between Elizabeth Turner and Stella Norrington.

* * *

 

Stella and her entourage had more visitors the next day.  She was still in bed, reciting what she could remember of _Hamlet_ to the men, when she heard an echo of the door opening a few moments before it happened.  Which was a good thing, since this time the visitors didn't even bother knocking; the only indication that they were about to have company was the sound of the key in the lock.  The door swung open to reveal Jack Sparrow and an old man whom Stella didn't know, and she turned her fiercest glare on them.

"Are you familiar with the concept of knocking, Mr. Sparrow?" she inquired acidly.

"Captain Sparrow, cousin," Jack corrected brightly, shutting the door behind himself and his companion.

"Really?  I thought Barbossa was currently captain of the _Black Pearl_ ," Stella said innocently, but with a sharp bite to her words.  "He's certainly acting like it."

"He's only captain of the starboard side," Jack said, scowling a bit.

"But I was taken captive on the port side," Stella pointed out.

Jack grinned sheepishly.  "Sorry about that, coz," he apologised.  "But it's done.  Just remember, I had no part in it."

"I'll still wreak vengeance on this ship, and every person on it," Stella informed him matter-of-factly.

"I wish you wouldn't," Jack wheedled.  "For your family, eh?"

"Yes, about that, Jack," Stella said, jumping on the matter.  "How precisely are we related?"

"Through him," Jack replied, jerking his thumb towards the silent man behind him.

"Your father," Stella surmised, after a keen glance at the man.  "And how is Captain..."

"Teague," the man supplied.  His voice was low and rough, likely from a lifetime of shouting orders on a ship.  He had the dark eyes that Mirela's descendants tended to possess, and a shrewd, watchful look in them that Stella recognised from the mirror.

"How is Captain Teague related to me?" Stella inquired, though she had a suspicion.  There weren't that many rogue family members on her tree, after all.

"I'm Esmerelda's younger brother," Teague supplied, doffing his hat and stepping forward.  His craggy face creased in a dry smirk that Stella recalled her grandmother wearing before her death.  "The mythical uncle, I believe your husband called me."

Stella smiled thinly, unsurprised that her suspicions had been confirmed.  "And so Jack Sparrow calls me cousin," she drawled.  "I find family where I thought to have none.  Will my newfound family free me from my captivity and send me to where I long to go, back to my husband?  Will my family, absent for my whole life, speak for me now?" Jack was looking uncomfortable with Stella's pointed commentary, looking down at his dirty hands and fiddling with his rings.  Teague, however, was watching her with amused dark eyes and a distance in his heart.  He claimed to be her family, but he wouldn't act like it.  Stella sneered at the both of them.  "I see they will not."

What good was family if they wouldn't fight for you?  How could these men call themselves her kin if they had never even let her know they existed?  Jack was clearly willing to use their blood relationship as a shield against her more malicious tendencies, but would do nothing to help her when she needed allies.  And Teague... Teague wanted nothing from her, and thus would do nothing for her.  This part of her family was worse than useless.  George Bell at least rejected her outright; on the other hand, Isaac both acknowledged her as his sister and fought for her when needed.  But Jack Sparrow and Edward Teague would only acknowledge her as a cousin when it benefited them, wanting rewards from themselves due to their kinship with the wind-witch, but unwilling to put themselves out for said wind-witch in her hour of need.

They were pirates before they were anything else—even family.

"So what is it that you want from me?" Stella asked coolly.

Jack gulped.  "Assurances that you won't destroy me ship?" he squeaked.

"Get me off your ship and we'll talk," Stella retorted.

"For your cousin?" Jack cajoled, clasping his hands over his heart.

"What good is a cousin who won't help you?" Stella scoffed.  "If you want favours from me due to our kinship, I will demand favours in return.  And since my only request has already been refused, you have no credit with me.  Reciprocity is the name of the game, Jack, and yet you have nothing to offer.  Nothing but a claim to kinship which you refuse to bolster with deeds—and that is no kind of kinship at all," she finished.  She wanted to make sure both of these men knew they could count on nothing from her unless they had something to offer in return, even if it was only loyalty.

But she knew better than to count on loyalty from Jack Sparrow, and apparently from Edward Teague as well.

Jack fidgeted uncomfortably.  "So... you're not going to destroy my ship?"

Stella glared at him.  "I'm not going to destroy a ship I'm occupying, idiot.  But all bets are off when I leave.  So you had better treat me excessively well and put me a bloody good mood before my release!  You can start by getting out of my sight," she spat. Jack nodded, wide-eyed, and quickly skedaddled out of her cabin as requested.  Teague, however, remained behind, grinning at her.  "What?" she snarled irritably.

"I just wanted to see you," Teague shrugged.  "See how you turned out."

"Well, have a look," Stella snapped.  "I'm married to one of the best men I've ever encountered, pregnant with his child, and I'd be effusively happy with my life at the moment if these pestilential pirates would let me go back to my husband."

Teague smiled.  "You're not half like Esme," he chuckled roughly.  "Got her sharp tongue."

Almost despite herself, Stella's curiosity was piqued.  Her grandmother Esmerelda had died when she was six; Stella had few memories of her, and they were all filtered through a child's mind.  "Have I really?" she wondered.  She'd always wondered where that had come from; her mother had been sweet and compassionate and barely said an unkind word to anyone; her father had been clever and amiable, assertive but never cruel.  Neither had possessed the ability to dispense the same kind of cutting, casual verbal jabs which had come so easily so Stella.

"You have," Teague confirmed.  "You're much like her.  Got Isabella's brains too, I'd wager."

"Why did you never write to me, or send a message with your son, or otherwise do something to let me know you existed?" Stella asked suddenly.  Teague sounded rather fond when he spoke of his sister and his... mother, she supposed; why had he not been fond of her and her mother as well?  Their time on Tortuga would no doubt have been more pleasant if they'd been under Teague's protection—or perhaps they need not have lingered on Tortuga at all had he been willing to help them.  Perhaps they could've left, and then Eleanor wouldn't have died in the smallpox epidemic which had claimed her life.  So many things could've been different had they known Teague existed, but they hadn't.  He had been content to live utterly apart from them, apparently cognizant of their kinship but unwilling to share that information with anyone, even his own son.  Stella couldn't help but wonder why.

"You were off living your life," Teague demurred.

"I was a girl left alone on Tortuga," Stella corrected stiffly.  "I was only seventeen when my mother died, left to fend for myself among pirates.  I could've used your help, or your support, or even the knowledge of your existence.   There was a time when I would've welcomed the knowledge of my kinship with Sparrow, if only so I wouldn't be so desperately alone."

Teague sighed, and rubbed his hand over his sleeve.  "I didn't think I had a place with you—not with the direct line."

"You could've made one," Stella pointed out icily.  "Mother and I certainly wouldn't have turned you away.  But you didn't even try."

"That's not the way of the family," Teague shrugged, looking away.

Stella wasn't sure if he actually believed what he was saying, or if it was a convenient way of absolving himself of blame.  But she wasn't inclined to let him shuffle off his own responsibility onto some vague concept of familial tradition which wasn't even true anyway.  "Rubbish," she negated bluntly.  "There's no axiom in our family that says our male cousins must live apart from us.  You chose to stay away, and I want to know why."

"We're the only male cousins," Teague told her.  "Jackie and I are the only sons ever born to the line, so far as I know."

Insight struck like a flash of lightning.  Edward Teague had been an anomaly in Mirela's dynasty—he'd been a son born to a line that only ever produced daughters.  And perhaps he'd been made to feel ashamed of that, made to feel like an outsider, like someone who was unable to fully participate in the family's traditions although he was ostensibly one of them.  And so when he grew up, Teague found a new set of traditions to uphold (i.e. the Pirate Code, since Stella could see how religiously he believed in and adhered to the codex's tenets) and distanced himself from the old traditions which had so soundly rejected him.  That was why he'd never reached out to his sister's children, because he'd only ever known rejection and exclusion from the women of the family, who pushed him away for something he had no control over.

"We would've welcomed you anyway," Stella informed him quietly.  "Mother and I... we were never exclusive like that.  Had you let us know you were family, we would've welcomed you with open arms.  You never would have been outsiders with us.  You would've been family."

She felt sad, then, for what could've been.  Perhaps some of the old scars on Teague's soul would've been healed, had he come to them and felt their acceptance; perhaps too, Eleanor might not have died and Stella herself would not have waxed so bitter in her exile on Tortuga.  Perhaps things might've been better for all of them... but they would never know, because Teague had stayed away, and never even told Jack that he was kin to the witches of Tortuga.  She was mournful for that lost potential; it would die before it ever had a chance to live.  For it was far too late, now.

Too much had passed for Stella to be able to extend that same acceptance; she was too bitter, too hardened, too happy with the family she'd made for herself to have any desire or ability to reach out so openly to any relations who had so wilfully kept themselves apart from her, and with too much to lose to willingly accept pirates into her new life.  Besides, she'd chosen her path the moment she agreed to marry James—or perhaps even long before, when she swore her mother's fate would not be hers.  She'd chosen to walk a lawful path, to live a respectable life as best she could and build a place for her magical descendants in a rapidly changing world.  And pirates, family or not, had no place in that future.

Teague echoed her thoughts, smiling sadly and wistfully at her.  "It's too late for that, niece," he rasped regretfully.  "Too much water under the hull for both of us, I think."

Stella nodded in agreement, and her answering smile was bittersweet and regretful.  "It is too late," she concurred quietly.  "But it wasn't always.  There was a time when we might've truly been family... but it isn't now."

Teague nodded, and settled his hat back onto his head, obviously preparing to take his leave. "Thank you for telling me," he said quietly, meeting her dark eyes with his own and letting her see the sincerity in his gaze.  "It's nice to know that it could've been better."

Stella nodded in return.  "Tell your son he needn't worry for his precious _Pearl_ ," she bid him sardonically, making amends for the way their familial relationship withered on the vine in the best way she knew.  "When I take my vengeance, it will land on Barbossa's head and not on the ship.  That should please him."

"No doubt, Mrs. Norrington," Teague chuckled, before giving her a deep, courtly bow and letting himself out.

He did lock her back in, though.  Blast.

Once the pirates were gone, Stella's four midshipmen rushed to her side, followed almost as quickly by the adult marines.  "Are you really related to those pirates?" Mr. Parker demanded excitedly.

"So it seems," Stella allowed, settling back against the pillows and rubbing her belly.  She was very tired nowadays, though at least her daughter wasn't kicking her as fiercely.  And Stella hadn't been lying when she warned Elizabeth that if Barbossa didn't release her soon she'd give birth on the _Black Pearl_.  Her time was rapidly approaching, and she could feel her body preparing for the ordeal of birth.  "However," she added sternly, "that intelligence must never leave this cabin.  Do you understand?" she demanded fiercely, meeting the eyes of each man in turn and glaring them into submission.  Some, like Murtogg, Mullroy, Clark, and MacDonald, folded easily under her will.  Sewall and Parker, however, thought it was romantic and amazing and wanted to share.  "If word gets out that I am kin to those pirates, my daughter's prospects will be ruined.  Do you understand?" she pressed.  "No one must ever know that I can count Edward Teague and Jack Sparrow among my blood relations, if not my family.  No one.  Do you promise?"

Everyone nodded and voiced their assent but Mr. Sewall, who hesitated.  Stella's hand reached out with the speed of a striking snake and grabbed his wrist.  "Do you promise, Joseph Sewall?" she insisted intently.

Faced with the formidable will of Stella Norrington, young Mr. Sewall caved.  "I promise," he vowed sulkily.

"Good," Stella sighed, settling back.  "I suppose it's true what they say, about your inability to choose your family.  I certainly would not have chosen pirates."  But she was resigned to it nonetheless; though Teague and Sparrow were kin, they weren't family, and had no ambitions to be.  She would go her way, and they would go theirs, and that would be the end of the matter.  The time when things could've been otherwise was long gone.

_James is my family now_ , Stella told herself firmly.  _James, and the baby, and Isaac, and these four young men, and even Anne Witcher and Caroline d'Ascoyne.  They are my family, and they are such because I chose to love them and regard them thusly.  And that means far more than any accident of blood_.

* * *

 

Stella Norrington, Charles Parker, Joseph Sewall, Robert MacDonald, Allen Clark, Angus Mullroy and Giles Murtogg were finally freed from their imprisonment after two days on the _Black Pearl_.  It was Jack Sparrow who got the dubious pleasure of letting them go and putting them to sea in a longboat which had been fitted with a small sail and a rudder. Barbossa, proving that he had at least a small measure of common sense, refused to be anywhere near Stella Norrington or her line of sight after he had so unceremoniously pistol-whipped her into unconsciousness.  Elizabeth Turner would've been the one charged with the task of Stella's release, since she had Stella had managed to achieve detente, but Captain Turner had departed the day before to start her new life.  So it fell to the other captain of the _Black Pearl_ (and Stella's cousin) to see the witch and her companions set free.

"Here you are, then," Jack said, handing Stella off to Murtogg and Mullroy, who helped Stella hoist herself into the longboat.  "I hope it's not been... er, unpleasant enough that you want to destroy us all?" he asked with a hopeful smile.

Stella settled down as best she could into the small boat, surrounded on all sides by her midshipmen, who glowered at Sparrow.  "As far as captivities go, it was far superior to my imprisonment on the _Flying Dutchman_ , or my time under Beckett's thumb," she allowed grudgingly.

"That's not saying much, coz," Jack pointed out with a wry grin.

"Indeed," Stella agreed.  "I am not happy with any of you, Jack, but Barbossa will draw the full force of my wrath.  For now, just let us go."

"Farewell, cousin!" Jack waved, as the crew first hoisted the boat up, then lowered it down into the ocean.

Murtogg and Mullroy manned the sail and the rudder, respectively, and Stella conjured a breeze to propel them to the northwest, where Jack said the remnants of the armada should be waiting.  The _Black Pearl_ also set sail, but to the southeast; both captains had been in agreement that they needed to get as far away from Stella Norrington as they could, as fast as they could.  The little dinghy, propelled by a stiff breeze and a favourable current in the ocean (courtesy of Calypso, Stella suspected) made good time.  Soon, the _Black Pearl_ was nothing but a speck on the horizon, and the retrofitted longboat and its occupants were left alone in the vastness of the ocean.

It made the men nervous, being adrift at sea in such a small craft with little to no provisions and no idea where they were, and only a vague heading as to where they were going.  Stella, however, was undaunted; she could turn the winds and she had the favour of Calypso.  Nothing bad would happen to them with Calypso's friendship.

"So, what do we do now?" Mr. Parker wondered, staring out over the empty ocean.

"Wait," Stella shrugged, adjusting her hat and her mantle to keep out the sun.  "James will find us by the end of the day.  He has been waiting most impatiently for our release."

The men looked at each other, out at the empty ocean, then at Stella.  "Know any more Shakespeare, ma'am?" Murtogg asked.

* * *

 

James Norrington wanted to shoot something the minute he let the _Black Pearl_ sail away.  As it was, he could only curse viciously under his breath and clench his fists in frustration.  He hated himself for doing this—for letting the pirates escape, for standing by uselessly while they all sailed away out of his grasp.  But what else could he do?  His hands had been tied.  As much as he hated it—and he did hate it—there was no other choice he could've made.  He couldn't have let Stella die—and die in front of him, no less—while he had some power to save her.

But he hated that he had been forced to surrender.  He hated that he was forced to let the pirates get away scot-free.  He had an armada at his command, and it was utterly useless!  And above all he hated that he had been the one to send Stella to the _Pearl_.  He'd thought she'd be safe there; he should've just kept her on the _Endeavour_.  At least then he could've gone after the pirates once the ship was taken.  But no, he'd sent her away, over to the _Pearl_ , and given her straight into the hands of that murderous old cur who'd used her against him and forced him to sit uselessly as the pirates dispersed.

He stewed resentfully for three days, seething quietly as they buried at sea those that had fallen in the battle (including Lord Beckett), and sailed the _Endeavour_ to the coordinates Barbossa had given him, which would be close—but not  too close—to where Stella and the other men would be released.  His mood seemed infectious, and a pall of gloom seemed to settle over the ship as they dropped anchor and waited.

Eventually, Theodore Groves came to see him in the cabin which had been Stella's, and which still contained all her things.  James had taken it as his own, eschewing the grandest stateroom which should've been his as Admiral, since he didn't want to sleep in any location which Beckett had once occupied.

"Snap out of it, James," Theodore said bluntly, shutting the door behind him.  "There was nothing else you could've done, and tormenting yourself about it won't make her return any faster."

"It still grates, Theodore," James replied, through gritted teeth.  "I could've had them all.  We outnumbered them at least two to one, and I could've wiped them out had I not been so unforgivably stupid as to send Stella over to the _Pearl_!  I practically handed her over on a silver platter."

"You have to stop blaming yourself for this," Theodore chided, a little more gently.  "You couldn't have known what would happen."

James sighed and raked his hands through his hair.  "I should've guessed.  I should've been... better.  I just wanted to protect her, but instead I sent her into the hands of our enemies.  More fool I for assuming the pirates had honour, and would at least wait until the end of the battle before turning on me," he said bitterly.  "This is my fault, Theodore.  Once again, I made a stupid decision which will likely cost innocent people their lives, to say nothing about what it will do to my already-delicate career."   That was another issue which had been niggling terribly.  "I'm about to become a father, Theodore—what happens if this ruins me again?  There'll be no way back if I fall this time, and what will happen to Stella and the baby?"

"It won't come to that," Theodore insisted.  "There's not a man on this ship who'll speak out against you—they all know Stella, and like her, and not a single one of them would've thought that you should let her die just to chase after pirates.  They all saw that Barbossa had her and was pointing a gun to her head, and not a one of them would've done anything to put her in danger.  Had you not submitted, in fact, there probably would've been another mutiny.  If it comes to a trial—which it won't—every single man on this ship will support you.  Don't borrow trouble, James."

"It still rankles," James grumbled.

"Could you have done anything differently?" Theodore asked, meeting his eyes earnestly.

James ground his teeth again.  There were so many things he could've done differently, and so fervently wished he had. "I could've kept her on the _Endeavour_ , or sent her to the _Dutchman_ , even, and not—"

"You did what you thought best at the time," Theodore interrupted sternly.  "With all the gunshots flying around, I would've sent her off the ship too.  No one could've known what Barbossa chose to do.  But once the battle was over, was there anything else you could've done?"

"...No," James admitted.  "No, there was nothing I could've done but what I did."  But it didn't make it any better.  And he had a feeling he'd still carry the burden of guilt for a long time to come.

"You always take more responsibility than is rightly yours, James," Theodore commented quietly, after a moment.  "It seems to me that you'd be damned either way.  You gave in, and you hate yourself for it.  If you hadn't given in, and Stella died, you'd hate yourself for that.  You hate yourself because we didn't fight the pirates, but if we had fought the pirates and people died you'd hate yourself for that, too.  You're not responsible for everything, you know.  Some things are beyond your control, and this is one of them.  You're a good man, James.  Don't hate yourself for no reason," he finished, clapping a hand on James' shoulder before leaving him alone with his thoughts.

James sighed again, and ran his fingers across the worn, almost-tattered cloth of Stella's black cloak (though it was more of a dark brown, now) which rested on the bunk beside him.  He heard what Theodore was saying, and even understood to an extent.  But in his heart he still felt guilty.  Perhaps in time, that too would fade.  And certainly he'd be in a better temper once Stella was back with him and he could see for himself that she was safe and unharmed.

And that night, as the sun set, a cry went up from the crow's nest.  "There's a boat, coming from the south!"

James immediately rushed up to the quarterdeck, where Groves was standing with a spyglass and staring out over the ocean.  "It's a small dinghy.  I think it's Mrs. Norrington and our midshipmen," Groves said excitedly, handing the spyglass over so James could look for himself.

As he peered through the glass, he could see what looked like a longboat with a makeshift sail.  There were six or seven people inside the boat, and it was moving towards the Endeavour at a brisk clip.  As it came closer, the wind shifted abruptly, and with it came Stella's voice.

_Hello, James.  All seven of us are here, and unharmed, though perhaps a bit sunburnt._

James sagged in relief, dropping the spyglass from his eye.  "It's them," he said.  "It's her.  They're all fine.  Prepare to haul the boat aboard."

Groves nodded, beaming widely, and started shouting orders.  The sailors immediately sprung into motion, and within a half-hour they were hauling the small boat up to the deck of the Endeavour.  Murtogg, Mullroy, and the four young midshipmen had already climbed up the side of the ship under their own power and were waiting on deck for Stella, who wasn't able to climb anything at her advanced stage of pregnancy.  James went down among them.

"Admiral!" Mullroy said, saluting once he noticed James' presence.  The rest of them immediately turned and saluted as well.

"Gentlemen," James acknowledged.  "I'm glad to see you're well."  And indeed, all six men seemed no worse for wear.  "I trust your captivity was not too trying?"

"No sir," Mullroy replied, shaking his head.

Murtogg and the four midshipmen nodded in agreement. "Could've been much worse, sir," Murtogg agreed.  "Mostly, they just locked us in the captain's cabin and left us alone."

"Well, that's something," James said, relieved that it hadn't been any worse.  In fact, in an extreme twist of irony, the pirates had probably treated Stella better than Beckett or Jones had, and they'd ostensibly been her allies.

And then Stella appeared, sitting in the longboat as it rose over the rail, and James rushed over to help her clamber out.  He enveloped her in his arms and held her tightly.  "Hello, Starling," he murmured into her hair.

"James," she sighed against his chest.

He set her down and looked her over, searching for any signs of ill-usage.  Aside from a dark bruise on the side of her head, she appeared no worse for wear.  Stella smiled crookedly, and reached up to touch his cheek.  "I'm fine, James," she assured him.  "I'm just so happy to be free."

And they were free, James realised.  Beckett was gone, Mercer was missing, presumed dead, and the pirates were long gone.  There was nothing to keep them from each other anymore, and no reason why they shouldn't go back to Jamaica and lead their lives as they wanted.

They were free.

James smiled, and leaned down to kiss her gently.  He could feel Stella smile against his lips, and heard the cheers and chuckles from the men around them.  Then he rested his forehead on hers, and murmured, "Let's go home."

 


	46. Stella Genesis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the dust settles and life goes on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter proper--after this, just the epilogue! And it only took me... like, 3 years to get it all transferred over. But then, it took me about 4 and a half to write it.
> 
> _A/N: And here we are at the penultimate chapter of the whole entire fic.  Holy fricking crap.  Not a lot of action, here; just some resolution.  And a cameo from a real-life historical figure!_

 

The _Endeavour_ arrived in Port Royal a week after they picked up Stella's longboat from the ocean.  The news of Beckett's demise was greeted with great celebration, since his death heralded the end of martial law.  Life in the town relaxed almost instantly; the atmosphere of fear and suspicion which had flourished under Beckett's command dissipated almost overnight.  The citizens who had been kept imprisoned due to supposed piratical connections were released, and the hangings stopped.  The upper classes also rejoiced, since the prohibitions on assemblies were lifted.  Caroline d'Ascoyne threw a massive party the second night after the _Endeavour's_ arrival, at which both James and Stella managed to put in a brief appearance and were toasted and fêted like returning heroes.

"What happened to your hair?" James wondered afterwards.  They were both already dressed for bed, with James perched on the edge of the mattress and Stella seated at her vanity, brushing her long hair, which was strangely still. "It doesn't move anymore."

Stella startled violently—so violently that one of her books flew through the air and hit the wall with a thump, and she fumbled with her hairbrush as all the colour washed from her face.  He was instantly concerned, and slid off the bed to go and stand beside her.  "Starling?"

Stella refused to meet his gaze, staring down at the vanity table with a look of misery and... shame?  James, now earnestly worried, took her gently by the shoulders (very, very gently; having seen just how many bruises Beckett had put on his wife's body, James regretted that he hadn't been the person to run him through) and made her look at him.  The sight of tears in her dark eyes made him even more alarmed.  "What is it, Stella?" he asked gently.

"I did something awful," she whispered desolately.  "They told me you were dead, and I... I didn't know that Jones had lied to me, I truly thought you were dead.  And I..." she trailed off, and tried to pull away.

James held her fast, however.  "I won't think any less of you, whatever it is," he promised softly, stroking her dark hair, which was now just hair, and no longer moved.  Which made him strangely more comfortable; though Stella's animate hair had been amusing, it did disconcert him a bit, and had been a reminder of an episode in their lives he didn't much like thinking about.

His words made Stella actually start weeping, tears trailing silently down her cheeks.  "I did black magic," she confessed.  "I killed seven rats and sacrificed the soul of the Kraken to bring about a future where you came back to me, alive."  Her face twisted with misery.  "And I didn't even need to do it—you weren't ever even dead.  I wish I hadn't done it—I never wanted to sully myself like that, but I was too weak to live in a world without you in it."

"Shh," James hushed her, stroking her back gently.  He supposed this was something he didn't understand because he wasn't born into magic the same way Stella had been, but he didn't think what she'd done as too reprehensible.  It wasn't as though she'd been sacrificing babies or bathing in virgin's blood; seven rats and the spirit of a sea monster which had tried to kill them didn't seem too terrible to him.  Stella, however, was obviously torn up about it.  "I still love you," he promised her.  "I will always love you."

Stella started weeping silently into his shoulder, and James stroked her hair and crooned wordlessly to her.  "I did things I'm not proud of either," he admitted quietly.  "What I did to crew the armada under Beckett's orders... allying with pirates, mutinying, sending you to the _Black Pearl_ and practically handing you over to that bastard Barbossa... these are things I wish I hadn't done, either."

"We'll atone," Stella stated fervently, her voice thick and rough from crying.  "We'll be better, and we'll atone for what we did."

"We will," James agreed firmly.  "At least we're alive to do so.  Not everyone is that lucky."

* * *

 

The next morning, on the 21st of March, Stella went into labour.  A storm blew up over Port Royal in the afternoon while she struggled to bring their daughter into the world, and James sat in the parlour with Theodore Groves and Isaac Bell while the thunder rolled outside and the rain lashed the windows. Theodore did his best to get James so drunk that he'd stop fretting about it, and keep Isaac sober enough that he wouldn't pick a fight with James.

Things were still slightly tense between brother-in-laws.  Isaac's ship, the _Raven_ , had been near enough after the battle of the _Endeavour_ (flying the colours of the Greek Fire and intending to come to the aid of the Norrington partisans on the _Endeavour_ ) to witness the men of the ship standing down and letting the pirates escape.  The _Raven_ had also been close enough to receive an explanation as to  why they were letting the pirates sail away unmolested, and Isaac had not been amused.  He had tried to convey just how un-amused he was once they arrived back in Port Royal, but Stella had stepped in and informed her brother that if he didn't keep a civil tongue in his head she'd hex it out.  She was tired of having her husband and her brother at odds, and by God they'd get along, she shrieked, or she'd know why!  Not wanting to upset her, Isaac immediately backed down.  And now he sat in James' study, clearly doing his best to be polite.

It was difficult for James to keep calm; Stella was screaming so loudly that he could hear her even through the study's closed door and over the storm outside.  Groves was just as nervous as James was, for different reasons, and Isaac's sullenness was like a rock in the corner of one's boot.

"This can't be over soon enough," James complained, scrubbing his hand over his face.  "How do people do this multiple times?"

"I imagine it'll be worth it when you hold your child for the first time," Groves offered optimistically.  "What will you name her?"

"I think Stella's chosen something," James replied absently, wincing as another pained cry echoed through the halls.  "I didn't ask her what, though.  She'll probably include 'Eleanor' in the baby's name, though.  It seems to be tradition."

"It is," Isaac spoke up.  "The women of the family name their daughters with a second name from their grandmother. Aunty Nell was Eleanor Isabella, and her mother was Esmerelda Mirela."

"I honestly don't care what Stella names our daughter, so long as they're both healthy," James announced, after another roll of thunder, throwing back another swig of spirits.  "I just want to live with my family in peace.  No more pirates, no more politics, and no more monsters, whether human or otherwise."

"Amen!" Isaac concurred, toasting.

"Hear, hear!" Theodore cheered.

It took four more hours for Stella to deliver her first child.  The storm passed, the sun set, and the first stars were coming out when she gave one final scream, louder than all the others.  Then a new cry was heard—the wail of an infant.  James jolted out of his chair the moment he heard the baby's cry.  He looked to Isaac, who was wide-eyed, and then to Theodore, who had a grin slowly creeping across his face.  As one, the three men rushed out the door, nearly colliding with Estrella, who was coming down the hall with a smile on her face.

"Admiral Norrington!" she greeted jubilantly.  "Mrs. Norrington is delivered of a daughter, and both mother and child are well."

James sagged against the wall in relief (and in order to support himself, since the alcohol he'd been drinking was making his legs rather wobbly), feeling a huge, silly smile spread across his face.  He was a father!  He turned to Theodore and Isaac, both of whom were grinning, and exclaimed proudly, "I'm a father!"

Theodore rushed over and hugged him, slapping his back and congratulating him.  Even Isaac seemed genuinely cordial and truthful as he shook James' hand and asked him to convey his best wishes to his sister.  And then James was shown into the bedchamber.

Stella was reclined on the bed, looking exhausted but ecstatic.  She smiled at him as he entered the room, and said weakly, "James, she's here, and she's beautiful."

A nursemaid came over with a bundle in her arms.  "Here is your daughter, sir," she said.

James sat down and accepted the new baby, cradling her carefully and making sure to support her head.  Personally, he thought she looked rather red and squashed... but he supposed she was beautiful because he already loved her, his firstborn, more than anything else in the entire world.  All three members of his family (including himself) were here, and all were well (insofar as he knew), and all were safe from Beckett's malice.

He looked over at Stella, who was smiling beatifically at him.  "What's her name?" he asked, noting distantly that his voice was rather choked up.

"Bellatrix Calypso," she replied.

That surprised him, and James looked down at the baby in his arms, who was staring up at him curiously.  He smoothed his hand over the soft wisps of brown hair covering her delicate skull.  It seemed like a rather large name for such a tiny girl.  "Not Eleanor?" he inquired.

"Considering how much we both owe to Calypso, I thought it appropriate that we honour her first," Stella explained, yawning a little

"Fair enough," James allowed.  "Why Bellatrix, though?  Isn't that a rather... er, warlike name?"

Bellatrix Calypso began to cry a little, and James rocked her gently as he got up to hand her to her mother.  Stella accepted her baby with a bright smile, and set about nursing her child; after some fits and starts, little baby Bellatrix drank hungrily.  Stella traced her fingers over her daughter's head and shoulders, looking happier in this moment than James had ever seen her before.

"Perhaps," Stella admitted, smiling down at her child.  "But... well, there were so many times when I came very near to giving up, when Beckett's cruelty grew too great.  And always whenever I wanted to stop fighting, this little one would kick me until I found a bit more spirit," she explained fondly, stroking the baby's downy cheek.  "She was my reason to keep fighting, and an Amazon already in the womb, so considering my name means 'star', I decided..."

James was nodding, and he went over to seat himself gently on the edge of the bed.  "That is a good choice, then," he agreed.  While it wasn't exactly what he'd have chosen himself, it had meaning enough that he wouldn't dispute it.  Not that he would've anyway, given how much Stella had suffered while carrying the child.  "Bellatrix Calypso Norrington."  He reached out to touch his daughter's head, and then his wife's hand.  "I love you—both of you—so very much," he whispered.

Stella's answering smile was beautiful.

* * *

 

Bellatrix Calypso Norrington was a small baby, perhaps due to all the privations her mother had suffered whilst carrying her.  Still, despite her small size, she was a healthy enough child, with especially healthy lungs which she used to rouse her parents from sleep every night.  Stella had insisted on nursing the baby herself, and James hadn't had the heart to command her otherwise; thus, the two of them were awakened often for their daughter's feedings.

Bellatrix was baptised two days after her birth, in the same church in which her parents had been married.  Theodore Groves stood as godfather, and Anne Witcher as godmother, with the family and friends of the Norringtons (and many citizens of Port Royal) present as well—including Stella's brother and her four midshipmen, whom she seemed to have adopted during her time on the _Endeavour_.  James found it terribly amusing, the way the four lads trailed along after his wife like ducklings whenever they were on land, even when Stella was doing nothing more than cooing and fussing over her new baby with Miss Witcher, Madam d'Ascoyne, and Mrs. Fitzherbert.  The four midshipmen all seemed to have adopted Bellatrix as a little sister, after a fashion, and Misters Clark and MacDonald (having younger sisters of their own, apparently) especially seemed to dote on her.

It became apparent after a few weeks that Bellatrix would take after her father in looks—her infant's blue eyes changed to her father's green (which had surprised Stella, given that she'd expected Bellatrix to have the dark eyes that all her foremothers had borne; eventually, however, she decided it was apropos that her daughter should have green eyes instead of dark since the way in which the family interacted with the world had changed.  James just laughed at Stella's ability to see symbols in everything, and took pride in the alertness in his firstborn child's eyes); the wispy locks of hair protruding from her head were James' chestnut-brown, rather than Stella's raven-black; and her features had none of Stella's sharpness.  James wondered what kind of powers his daughter might be expected to possess, but Stella assured him that Bellatrix probably wouldn't display any such things until she was at least seven.  (He couldn't help but be relieved about that.  The idea of a toddler controlling the weather or blowing things up or turning herself invisible was enough to strike fear into the heart of any parent.)

Life, during those spring weeks after Beckett's demise, was good for the Norringtons.  Bellatrix grew into a chubby, merry baby. Stella gained back the weight she'd lost during her long period of imprisonment, both under Jones and Beckett, and recovered from childbirth.  She also cursed Hector Barbossa, in vengeance for his kidnapping.  When James asked what that could be expected to do, Stella smiled that vicious little not-smile which had been entirely absent from her face since Bellatrix's birth, and replied that Barbossa could expect a rash of bad luck to dog his steps.  Things he undertook would go awry, he would have disturbing nightmares whenever he slept, and he was soon going to develop a painful irritation on an area of his body which would make it jolly uncomfortable to stand and which would also wither certain parts of his anatomy.  It would, however, she added with a wicked grin, at least make it easier for him to conserve his money, since he certainly wouldn't be spending any of it on pleasurable company.

James, when he heard that, cringed a little.  He did hate Barbossa, of course, and was happy to see him get his comeuppance for what he'd done to them... but James was also a man, and male sympathy in this instance was powerful.  "Starling, why is your first instinct always to go for the balls?" he asked with a wince, which made Stella laugh.

However, not all the magics she worked that spring were malicious.  She also blessed her four midshipmen, as she'd vowed to do, and sewed them shirts with the same benevolent charms worked into the embroidery as James' uniform was rife with.  She spent a lot of time recording her observations on the _Flying Dutchman_ , Calypso, and William Turner in the grimoire.

James himself worked to set right everything that Beckett had knocked askew, both in the fleet and in Jamaica itself, in place of the late Governor Swann.  Beckett's communication lockdown had been removed, and letters once again travelled freely to and from Jamaica... including a missive from Admiral Norrington to the Crown requesting a new governor, since the late one had been murdered by Beckett.  Thus, while everyone else was uncomplicatedly happy, James Norrington knew it was the calm before the storm, though he was resolved to enjoy the respite while it lasted.

In early September, six months after Bellatrix Norrington was born, a letter came from the Crown, summoning James Norrington to London for a hearing regarding the occurrences in the Caribbean under the command of Lord Cutler Beckett of the East India Trading Company, and about the death of the same.  Groves, as captain of the _Endeavour_ , also had a summons.

James had known this was coming, both through his own understanding of the political currents involved and because Stella had warned him about it.  Most of Port Royal also knew, and as James prepared to set sail for London with his family in tow (since Stella had been such a huge part of everything and James didn't want to be without her counsel, he'd decided to bring her with him; and since Stella wouldn't leave Bellatrix alone while they sailed halfway around the world for however long they'd be away, their daughter was coming with them as well) the Norrington house was inundated with letters of support from all the citizens of Port Royal, high and low.

Still nominally Admiral, James left most of the fleet behind to keep order in the Caribbean, and set sail on the _Endeavour_ with his family.  Stella directed the winds (when she wasn't seasick, that is; six months on land had worn away her sea legs and she had to start all over) and they managed to make the crossing in a month.  Bellatrix seemed to enjoy the voyage, gurgling and giggling whenever she was out on deck; Stella lamented, with a pointed glance at her husband, that there was too much salt in her veins.  James threw up his hands and said she shouldn't blame him— she'd been the one who'd spent most of her pregnancy at sea, as well as naming the child after a sea goddess.

James and Stella also took the time to go through Beckett's papers, looking for evidence which might condemn Beckett and vindicate them.  They struck gold in that respect—Beckett wrote everything down, including some letters which might even be thought treasonous if regarded by the correct eyes.  All in all, despite the unwelcome reminder of Beckett and his blight on their lives, it was a pleasant voyage, and much more enjoyable than the last time Stella had sailed on that vessel.

They arrived in London in October.  James took lodgings for himself and his family near the Strand, and sent a letter to his mother's wealthy, well-connected relatives in Hampshire informing them that he was in England.  He doubted anything would come of it—his mother had been dead for over a decade, and had very cool relations with her family while she had been alive due to her marriage into a family with long history but little money—but he at least wanted the option of calling on the family if they agreed to see him.  Besides, he might need their support if things went wrong.

A week after their arrival, James was summoned to appear before Sir Robert Walpole at Westminster.  Stella helped him dress, and gave him what advice she could—which was, basically, avoid talking about the supernatural aspects as best he could but otherwise be honest.  The government wanted to do their best to gloss over this whole issue—especially if Beckett was as guilty as the evidence suggested.  The Norringtons needed to be as clear about Beckett's evil deeds as they could, and as clear about the support the Norringtons had from the citizens of Port Royal and the men of the navy, because otherwise they themselves might be found guilty in the Crown's desire to rehabilitate Lord Beckett's reputation.

Sir Robert Walpole, the prime minister and the first man in England after the King, was a tall, portly Norfolk gentleman with bushy black bows and keen brown button eyes which peered at him from underneath a massive grey curled wig.  He looked up from his desk as James was shown in, and stood to greet him.  "Mr. Norrington," he said warmly, shaking his hand with a firm grip.  "Welcome to London.  Thank you for coming with such speed."

"Thank you for seeing me, Sir Robert," James replied politely, noting that he was being called "mister" instead of "admiral", and trying not to be unnerved by it.  At least the prime minister was more polite than Beckett was.

Walpole settled back behind his desk, and shifted the papers around enough to clear a space for a huge stack of letters.  "Interesting business, this," the Prime Minister remarked, tapping the papers.  "We've got two conflicting stories here, Mr. Norrington.  Lord Beckett was religious in his reports, and we also have correspondence from the late Governor Swann.  But then we also have many, many more letters from Jamaican citizens which condemn Lord Beckett, and give us a very different picture of his actions.  Now, you were appointed Admiral of this... armada which Lord Beckett was building—without the Crown's permission, I might add—and so His Majesty and I are interested in hearing what you have to say," he said firmly.

James took a deep breath and began to speak.  He explained about how Beckett had come to Jamaica and arrested the governor's daughter and her fiancé, and sought Jack Sparrow for some reason or other—which might, he added, have something to do with the previous relationship between the two men (which was a scurrilous, if accurate, bit of information he'd gotten from Stella).  He went on to detail Beckett's blackmailing of Governor Swann and his impeding of any and all communications leaving Jamaica (which would explain the letters the Crown had received from Swann and the reason they had heard no other reports of Beckett's actions), his dabbling in black magic, and the deal he struck with a fearsome pirate (which was how they'd decided to spin Beckett's deals with Davy Jones), his interference with Mrs. Norrington, imprisoning her on the pirate's ship (which they decided to just go ahead and call the _Flying Dutchman_ ) and later keeping her on the _Endeavour_ and beating her, even though she was heavy with child, and finally the fact that Beckett had his henchman Mercer murder Governor Swann.

"Are you certain?" Walpole asked, horrified.

James nodded.  "My wife saw Mercer disposing of the body over the side of the _Endeavour_ herself, and apparently Beckett confirmed it the next morning," he said quietly.  That had been hard for him to hear, when they discussed the matter during their voyage to England, the fact that Mercer was dead notwithstanding.  James had been fond of Weatherby Swann; the governor had always been kind to him, and he would've gladly called him father-in-law had his life gone differently. It was painful to hear that his body had been treated so discourteously.

He continued on his narrative, then, detailing his capture by the pirates (it had been decided that it would be a better idea not to tell the government that he'd sided willingly with the brigands) and the eventual mutiny against Beckett, during which the man had been slain by an unknown pirate.  (Though James knew full well it had been Elizabeth who had done the deed, he elected to keep that knowledge to himself.  Perhaps there would be a way for her to return to polite society, or at least be able to access the monies and lands which were hers by right as her inheritance from her father, if he kept quiet about everything she had done.)

Walpole nodded once the accounting was complete, sighing deeply.  "Tell me about your wife, Mr. Norrington," he requested, after a moment of silence.  "I did notice how often she came up in your accounts, and she is also mentioned often in the letters."

"I have more letters for you, Sir Robert," James added, reaching into his folio and handing the stacks of letters over to the Prime Minister.  "These are letters from the citizens of Port Royal in regards to Beckett's behaviour, and my own."

"Thank you," Walpole said, his bushy black brows rising as he realised just how many letters James had brought with him.  "I will certainly take the contents of these missives into account.  Will they explain why Lord Beckett was apparently so fixated on your wife?"

James fidgeted uncomfortably.  "My wife has... certain talents, which Lord Beckett wanted to reserve for his own usage," he replied delicately.

"Did he want to swive her?" Walpole asked bluntly.

_Good God, this man certainly is blunt_.  "No, he loathed her personally," James replied quickly.  "And I have been led to understand that he was not... ah, capable of taking her as a mistress at all. He just wanted to make use of her.  Had he just been cuckolding me, I wouldn't have been so upset.  But he was wilfully putting her life in danger while she was carrying my child, and treating her in a fashion I would not allow any man to treat my dogs, let alone my wife," he finished indignantly.  "I saw her body after Beckett's death—she was absolutely  mottled with bruises.  Not a single inch of her, save her belly, her forearms, and her face, was left untouched."

Walpole winced, and sat back thoughtfully.  "Would it be possible to speak with your wife?" he inquired after a moment.

"She did accompany me to London with our daughter, and will of course be able to attend upon you at your leisure, Sir Robert," James replied.

"Good," Walpole nodded, steepling his fingers under his chin.  "Bring her to me a sen'night from now, if you please.  I will have some time at ten in the morning, and we can dine together afterwards.  It'll take me a few days to weed through all this," he added wryly, tapping the stacks of letters.  "Thank you for coming, Mr. Norrington."

"Sir Robert," James said, bowing deeply on his way out, and making his way back to his lodgings and his family.

"How was it?" Stella inquired, once he was settled back in the parlour with Bellatrix cradled on his lap.  She was wrapped in a thick woollen shawl and close enough to the fire that her skirts were in danger of igniting; autumn in England was colder than Stella, a lifelong resident of the Caribbean, was used to.

"Sir Robert Walpole is a most... blunt individual," James replied, smiling wryly.  "But I think he believed me about Beckett.  He wants to see you next week," he added.  "You're to give your account of the occurrences, and we've been invited to dine with Walpole later."

Stella grinned.  "My goodness, I get to meet the most important man in England!" she laughed.

James laughed with her, and Bellatrix gurgled happily with her parents.  Stella was laughing a lot more often, nowadays; her smiles came more freely and were less bitter, her face was more open and less guarded, her wit less cutting and sarcastic.  She seemed a more content, happy woman, even though they were in the midst of an investigation which had the possibility to ruin them all.  Stella, however, believed fervently that they'd be cleared of everything, and James found that her confidence was infectious, as was her joy.

That day was Tuesday.  They spent the remainder of the week touring London, seeing the sights and taking in the atmosphere.  Groves came with them on Wednesday (he was unable to accompany them everywhere, nor share lodgings, since he had to remain with the ship for the most part), and informed them that he was to see Sir Robert tomorrow to explain his version of events.  Stella's midshipmen accompanied them to a production of _Hamlet_ on Friday, and Mr. Parker invited them to dine with his family, who had a house in London, on Wednesday.

A week after that first Tuesday, James and Stella left Bellatrix with her nurse, collected Beckett's papers, and went to Westminster, where Stella was presented to Sir Robert Walpole.

Walpole was clearly taken aback upon meeting Mrs. Norrington; it was plain she was not at all what he expected.  Apparently the king's First Minister had expected a more conventionally beautiful woman—someone more obviously likely to inspire lustful obsession, no matter what James had said otherwise regarding the relationship between Beckett and Mrs. Norrington.  Short, sharp, slender Stella—nowhere near conventional beauty, though striking in her own way and with more than enough wit to make up for physical loveliness—took him aback at least a little, forcing him to reexamine his assumptions and shaking him out of complacency.  

Stella curtsied deeply.  "Sir Robert," she greeted.

"Mrs. Norrington," Walpole said warmly, coming around to kiss her hand.  "It's a pleasure to meet you.  I've heard much about you."

"Of that I have no doubt," Stella replied dryly with a twist of her lips as James helped her into a chair before Walpole's desk.

Walpole sat down behind his desk and shuffled his papers.  "My clerks and I have reviewed the letters from the citizens of Port Royal, all of which exonerate you and condemn Lord Beckett, who clearly overreached his authority," he began.  "But you, Mrs. Norrington, are mentioned quite a bit in everyone's account.  Apparently Lord Beckett had you imprisoned for piracy?" he inquired, with a lift of his black brows.

"He did," Stella replied calmly.  "Anyone who had ever had any interactions with anyone convicted of piracy was guilty under Lord Beckett's statutes.  And since my mother and I had been robbed by pirates and thereafter stranded on Tortuga when I was a girl, I was found guilty."

"Lord Beckett convicted you for being robbed and marooned?" Walpole asked incredulously.

"He did," Stella confirmed, keeping her dark eyes locked on the man in front of her, the picture of calm serenity.  Her hand, however, held tightly in James' grip, was clammy; she was nervous, though she was hiding it well.  She knew just what was at stake.  "Nor was I the only one."

"Well, you were released," Walpole noted, harrumphing and making a tick mark on a paper in front of him.   "And... apparently taken to sea in a hurricane?"

Stella grimaced.  "Yes, it was very unpleasant."

"Why on earth would Lord Beckett do such a thing?" Walpole asked, but his dark eyes were watchful.

There was a long moment of silence, in which Stella met Walpole's gaze with her own.  Then she removed her hand from James', and gestured at an inkwell on Sir Robert's desk.  The inkwell scooted across the wooden surface, stirring the papers in its wake, and settled on the opposite side of the desk.  Walpole gasped and startled backwards, nearly tipping over his chair.  He stared incredulously at the inkwell, then over at Stella.

"'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy'," she quoted with a mysterious smile.

Walpole swallowed around the lump in his throat.  "I think you had better explain in more detail, Mrs. Norrington," he said slowly.

So Stella did.  She didn't tell the Prime Minister everything, of course; she implied only that she could excite and calm storms, as well as being able to direct them a little bit, saying nothing about her command over the winds independent of whatever tempest was in motion.  That was enough, though; Walpole immediately understood why she might have been so prized by Beckett.  He asked more questions about the source of such powers, but Stella played her cards close to her chest and implied that it was a strange talent whose origin was unknown which had been with her all her life, revealing nothing of her ancestors or the hidden subculture populated by people with just such powers.  James was just grateful that the minister's first instinct wasn't to cry witchcraft and have his wife hanged.

Once this was revealed, Walpole's investigation moved quickly.  It seemed to have filled in many of the more uncertain areas of the case, and he certainly didn't question the accusations of Beckett having used black magic.  His questions now tended more to Beckett's actions... including his treatment towards and murder of Governor Swann.

"Are you certain it was done under Lord Beckett's orders?" Walpole asked, rather gently.  Stella had started sniffling while describing the night she'd seen Mercer throwing Swann's corpse overboard, and now James held one of her hands between both of his while she used her other hand to dab at her eyes with a handkerchief.  He didn't doubt that her emotion was real, even though she was also using it as a tactic against Walpole, who was clearly scrambling to exonerate Lord Beckett and not having much luck, especially since he was unwilling to be too harsh with a weeping, emotional woman.

"Mercer did nothing without Beckett's say-so," Stella informed him frankly.  She wasn't about to tell Sir Robert that Mercer was a demonically-animated corpse, bound to serve its master loyally and without question.  She was straining his credulity enough for one day; besides, whether he believed Mercer was a garden-variety thug or a fiendish familiar was irrelevant.  Mercer had still murdered Weatherby Swann on Beckett's orders. "And Beckett told me himself, the next morning, that he was both aware of Mercer's actions and condoning of them."  She recounted the conversation she'd had with Beckett the morning after, and Walpole looked more and more despondent.

The prime minister had been hoping that Lord Beckett hadn't been quite as bad as most of the letters had implied.  After all, he (and the East India Trading Company) had done both Walpole personally and the Crown a good turn in the aftermath of the South Sea Bubble, and he'd been hoping that something of Lord Beckett's reputation might be salvaged, that perhaps the people had been exaggerating.  But it was not to be—especially since Mrs. Norrington pulled out another sheath of papers.  Lord Beckett's papers, which detailed all his underhanded dealings which were simply illegal at best and downright treasonous at worse.

Walpole sighed.  "Thank you, Mr. Norrington, Mrs. Norrington," he said, accepting the incriminating papers.  "I'll look over these papers and confer with His Majesty about what's to be done.  Now, shall we dine?"

"Of course," James agreed, rising in tandem with Walpole and drawing Stella up with him.

Conversation at the meal, which was taken in Walpole's residence near Whitehall, was dominated mostly by Stella and Walpole; James, aware of the undercurrents and double-talk rife in the dialogue, was content to let Stella do the fencing.  Once the meal was over, Walpole bid the Norringtons farewell, and warned them that they may be summoned again.

"They're scheming on what the official account is going to be," Stella explained sardonically later that night, as they supped at their own lodgings.  "Sir Robert can't tell the truth about Beckett's actions and his demise—I understand he was a great help to the government during the South Sea Bubble crisis, which was why Beckett was ennobled in the first place—and thus must come up with something else which people will accept.  Too many of us know at least some of the truth, so I imagine he's in quite a pickle."

"I detest such political quibbling," James grumbled.  "The truth is the truth."

"And history is written by the victors, my love," Stella chided him, amused.

"As long as we don't get executed or reduced to penury, I'll be content," he decided.

"I don't think it will come to that," Stella remarked thoughtfully.  "In fact, I believe Sir Robert and the King are prepared to be quite generous in return for our endorsement of the official account, and our discretion regarding Beckett's activities."  She rested her hand on his, and stroked his skin gently with her thumb.  "I know you don't like it, the way things will be twisted to make Beckett less of a monster than he was.  I don't much like it, either.  But we will know the truth, and he's dead in any case.  At least we will prosper... I hope."

"That is something," James agreed.

* * *

 

The next day, the Norringtons dined with the family of Charles Parker.  Young Mr. Parker himself sang their praises to the skies, and the family—which was wealthy and well-connected—was very welcoming.  Knowing that Walpole and the King might not appreciate the dissemination of the truth—which, though it was the truth, was not officially approved—both James and Stella were discreet about the events in the Caribbean.  Charles was not as discreet as his older guests, and the Parker family were left with no kind thoughts towards Beckett.  Mrs. Catherine Parker was especially grateful to Mrs. Norrington for looking after her son, and the family promised to speak for the Norringtons if needed.  Stella was quite pleased at establishing such an connection and at having made such a friend.

Two days later, however, the Norringtons were visited by someone rather less friendly, and considerably less welcome.

It was a rainy London afternoon, grey and chilly.  James and Stella, more accustomed to the warmth of the Caribbean, elected to stay indoors and remain close to the fire—especially because Stella had warned her husband that they were to have a visitor today.  Thus, they weren't surprised when a servant arrived to inform them they had a caller. It was the name of the caller which was so shocking.

"Mrs. Livia Beckett to see you, Mr. Norrington," the young man announced.

James and Stella shared a look—James shocked, Stella resigned—then as one stood to make ready.  James handed Bellatrix over to her nursemaid, Stella smartened her hair and brushed her skirts, and they prepared to meet the mother of their late, great enemy.

Mrs. Livia Beckett was a sharp-eyed, iron-jawed, steely-haired matron who, in James' opinion, looked as though she could sour milk with a mere glance.  Her cloth was rich and well-cut, though in sombre shades; apparently she had donned mourning for her son.  Her eyes were the same icy blue as Cutler Beckett's and her features had no little kinship with her son; though she was aged it was clear she had once been a very beautiful woman.  She was handsome enough even now, though James felt the hardness of her expression detracted most severely from any beauty that remained.

"Mr. Norrington, Mrs. Norrington," Mrs. Beckett said coolly, curtseying shallowly in greeting.

"Mrs. Beckett," James replied, knowing that he was not hiding well how uncomfortable he was with this woman, and aware that she knew it, too.  Hadn't Stella once said something to the effect that Beckett's mother had powers like her?  No wonder Mrs. Beckett seemed to be looking right into him; she probably was.

"You know why I've come," Mrs. Beckett said, settling down into a chair as Stella rang for tea.

"Yes," James nodded, steeling himself for a truly uncomfortable afternoon.  No doubt Mrs. Beckett wanted an accounting of her son's death, and the circumstances surrounding it.  He and Stella would once again have to relive their sufferings at Beckett's hands, this time in the company of his mother, which would add a layer of awkwardness and discomfort to already-painful memories.

Stella came to sit with him on the same settee, brushing her hand across his back as she did in a wordless gesture of support.  "You want to know about the death of your son," she said, arranging her skirts around her and wrapping her shawl more securely around her shoulders.

"I do," Mrs. Beckett agreed, frowning severely.

"It will likely be a painful accounting," Stella warned.

"I will hear it nonetheless," Mrs. Beckett replied firmly.

James and Stella shared a look, and agreed silently that James would begin.  He started with detailing Beckett's search for the Heart of Davy Jones, and his actions once he was in possession of it—the crusade against the pirates, the imprisonment of Mrs. Norrington, the search for the Brethren Court, and his eventual demise at the hands of Elizabeth Turner.   He glossed as best he could over the matter of the Greek Fire, not wanting to tell Lord Beckett's mother that he'd conspired and mutinied against her son.  But he had a feeling Mrs. Beckett heard what he wasn't saying.

Mrs. Beckett didn't say much, when he was finished—just looked at him in that even, discerning, disconcerting way.  She glanced at Stella, then, and the two women held each others' gazes for a long time.  Then Mrs. Beckett nodded to James and said, rather patronisingly, "Thank you, Mr. Norrington."  She then turned to address Stella, "I understand you have a daughter, Mrs. Norrington."

Stella nodded.  "Yes, Mrs. Beckett.  Bellatrix Calypso.  She is now seven months old.  Would you like to see her?" she inquired lightly.  Mrs. Beckett was agreeable, and they adjourned above.  Stella smiled wryly at him over her shoulder as they left, and James wondered what was going on beneath the surface.

* * *

 

Mrs. Beckett fussed over Bellatrix with more warmth than she had previously displayed, announcing that she was a sweet child and would no doubt grow up to be a strong witch, a true credit to her mother and her line.  "My granddaughter Joanna—my youngest daughter's child, God rest her soul—can move things at will, and my Martina's child has proved to be a most powerful Seer," Mrs. Beckett commented proudly.

Stella made appropriately appreciative noises, though she was privately disgusted.  Mrs. Beckett seemed only to value her family for the powers they possessed. 

"Your husband edited his account very much," Mrs. Beckett commented as she handed Bellatrix back to her mother.  "Now I would like to hear it from you, without any alterations."

Stella sighed, and placed Bellatrix back in her cradle.  "Mrs. Beckett," she began.

"Livia," corrected the older woman.  "Call me Livia.  We are sisters of a sort, are we not?"

"Livia," Stella allowed.  "The reason James edited the account was only to spare your feelings.  Your son did a great many things of which you will not like to hear."

"My son was forever doing things I didn't like," Livia dismissed callously, with a flippant gesture.  "I daresay this won't be any worse than usual."

"It will," Stella corrected, feeling somewhat annoyed.  Beckett had been very much affected by his mother in his attitudes towards the supernatural, and now she found herself almost understanding and sympathising with him as she imagined what it might've been like growing up with this woman.  It was a most unwelcome feeling, considering how much she'd hated the man.  "Livia, your son meant to destroy us.  All of us."

And thus, over Bellatrix's cradle, Stella bluntly and plainly told Beckett's mother about all his dealings with herself—including both his proposals of marriage, his orders that she be imprisoned on the _Flying Dutchman_ , and the way he'd beaten her—and about his great crusade, which was not to destroy piracy, but instead to destroy the supernatural.  She held nothing back about the Greek Fire, nor about what she knew of her son's death on the blade of Elizabeth Turner.

Livia Beckett's expression grew ever more grim.  When Stella finished speaking, she hissed between her teeth in anger.  "That boy!" she growled.  "Better I should've drowned him at birth than that he should've turned so heinously against those who bore him!  Better indeed that he died than he succeed in his most foul plans!"

Stella frowned slightly.  While she understood Livia's anger at her son's behaviour, she would never go so far as to ever say she wished a child of hers dead, no matter what they had been doing.  She remembered what she'd said to Beckett, that morning she'd figuratively drawn the line in the sand: _bringing your mother a magical daughter-in-law won't make her respect you or love you any better than she does now_.  Those words, it seemed, were truer than she'd known.  Livia Beckett, she could see, did not love her son.  Nor had she ever done more than tolerate his presence in her family.  Cutler Beckett had been something to endure, like a badly-behaved dog.  All Livia's love had been reserved for her daughters, and for the propagation of the powers of the line.

"I would've killed that boy himself had he shown his face to me again!" Livia was still muttering.  While Stella doubted Livia would've sunk to murder, she certainly would've hexed him badly enough that Cutler Beckett might've wished himself dead.  "I apologise for all that Cutler did to you and yours," she added, once the worst of her rage had passed.

"I always thought your son was trying to prove himself to you in some strange manner," Stella commented.

"This was not the way to do it!" Livia snapped.

"I don't doubt it.  He's dead, at any rate," Stella murmured, still feeling the most unwelcome pangs of sympathy for he who had so tormented her.   Dear God, what had it been like, growing up with this woman?  Knowing that one's mother valued her powers and heritage more than her own children?  And that said children were only loved if they shared her powers and could carry on the line?  Stella knew her mother had loved her, powers or no; Eleanor had loved her, and loved Isaac, who wasn't even her own child, and would've loved George Bell as well had he allowed her.  What had it been like to know that your own mother didn't care two jots about you, and thought you worthless?  No wonder Beckett had turned out like he did!

"Thank goodness," Livia muttered.

"Have you no pity for your own child?" Stella asked, glancing down at her daughter.

"He's no son of mine!" Livia swore. "I reject him utterly, as he rejected me and all my ilk!"

"I think you rejected him long before he did you," Stella remarked quietly, fixing her dark eyes on the other woman.  "The only reason he ever took it into his head to marry me was to gain your approval, which implies he'd never had it before."

Livia made a unconcerned noise.  "A useless idea—he could never have given you such a fine little girl," she said scornfully, though her tones turned warm as she looked down at the baby in the cradle.

"And thus he had no value?"

"None at all," Livia agreed.

"You are a very strange kind of mother, Livia Beckett," Stella remarked.  "Did you not love your son?"

"Cutler was my late husband's child," Livia shrugged.  "He wanted a son.  I was content with my daughters."

"He was still your child," Stella said, trying not to sound as horrified as she felt.  She recalled her uncle Teague, and what she believed had happened to drive him so far away from his family that she'd never even heard his name.  This was far more extreme than that, with Beckett feeling so excluded and unloved that he grew angry and turned on everyone who had kinship with those who rejected him.  "He was still part of your family."

"Not truly.  Not like us," Livia insisted.

"Like us," Stella repeated flatly.  "Stars above, Livia, I hope I'm nothing at all like you.  And should I be so fortunate as to bear a son, I will never treat him anything like you treated yours.  Just because the sons we bear don't share our powers doesn't mean they're worthless!"

"They're not like us," Livia warned.  "Sons so often turn on their mothers and sisters, and deliver them into the hands of those who burn them!"

"The age of such burnings is fading fast; we are more like to face disbelief than persecution in the coming decades," Stella replied sharply.  "For myself, I shall love whatever children I am given as well as I am able.  And I pray I will never, ever treat them like you did."

Mrs. Beckett departed shortly thereafter, and Stella stormed back into the parlour with Bellatrix in her arms.  "Isn't she due for a nap?" James inquired, looking up from his book.

"She can nap with us," Stella replied, settling down in the chair by the fire and holding her baby close.  "By God, James, I think we just met one of the worst mothers on earth.  She treated her son as though he was utterly worthless just because he was a male, and had no powers.  For her, if a person hasn't got magic then they're useless!"

"I had noted she treated me rather like a talented pet," James agreed dryly.  "No wonder Beckett turned out the way he did."

"She's horrible," Stella grumbled.  "So many of us are like that—witches," she explained, at James' curious look.  "We value our daughters at the expense of our sons, and drive them away.  That's what happened with Teague, I think."

"It would explain a lot.  But don't you worry," James added, standing from his chair and coming over to press a gentle kiss to her forehead.  "You will be better than them.  Forewarned is forearmed, as you always tell me," he grinned, leaning over her shoulder to tickle Bellatrix under her chin.

Stella smiled up at him, still feeling a vague sympathy for Beckett and vexed about the same.  But she put it out of her head for the moment, and looked down at her daughter.  "We will love any brothers you have, Bella," she murmured to the child.  "We will be nothing like the Becketts."

* * *

 

James and Stella were summoned by Sir Robert Walpole several more times during the next month and a half, answering more questions... and being sounded out about how much reinterpretation they would accept, and what their price would be.  All that politicking left a bad taste in James' mouth, and he left most of the wrangling to Stella.

He did hear back from his mother's relatives, receiving a letter from his uncle, John Bradshawe, which invited his nephew's family to visit the estate in Hampshire at their leisure.  James wrote back, accepting the invitation as soon as Sir Robert Walpole released them to leave London.  It might actually be Christmas before they got out to the estates there, the way things were going.

It was in fact early December, two months into their visit to England, before the wrangling was done.  James and Stella met with Sir Robert Walpole one last time, to finalise things.  They were to shuffle off responsibility of everything onto the pirates, whereas the Greek Fire was to be forgotten as though it had never been and Beckett's murder of Swann swept entirely under the rug.  In return for the Norringtons' support of the official account and their silence regarding Beckett's behaviour, as well as for their loyalty to the Crown and their actions in defeating Lord Beckett, James Norrington was to be made a knight and created Lord Hargreve.  Groves was also going to receive a knighthood in addition to being promoted in the navy, and they were all (including many of the surviving officers on the _Endeavour_ ) getting promotions and grants of money to buy their assent.  (Stella informed him that most of that money was in fact coming from Beckett's accounts, since he no longer had a need for it.)

"'And Pilate said to him, "What is truth?"'" James muttered blackly as they climbed into the coach and departed Westminster.  "What is truth, indeed?  Not this."

"Come now, Lord Hargreve," Stella chided dryly. "This is the way of the world.  At least we're not being hanged as traitors, or reduced to penury."

"Doesn't it bother you?" James wondered.  "That all your sufferings, that everything we did is going to be wiped out in the official accounts as though it had never happened?"

"It has always been thus in the world my family has occupied," Stella told him with a shrug.  "We have always existed in the shadows, where none of our deeds are recorded—or if they are, they are not done so truthfully.  I suppose I'm used to it."  She reached for his hand.  "But I will write down the truth in the grimoire.  Even if no one else ever knows what really happened, at least our descendants will."

"It just bothers me that Beckett will not be known as the monster he was," James admitted.  "They're painting him as a good man, which we know full well he was not.  There will be no justice for Weatherby Swann, nor for any of the others that were murdered."

"Is there not?" Stella asked, raising a brow.  "It seems to me that justice has already been served in that case.  Beckett's dead, James, and Weatherby's at peace.  What does it matter what is said about him?  He is dead, and we are not.  That means we win."

James sighed, and leaned his head back against the wall of the coach.  "It still bothers me.  As does the fact that my naval career is over."

"I won't lie and say that doesn't please me," Stella admitted, toying idly with his fingers.  "Having lived in fear of your life once, I'm not eager to do it again... and again... and again, every time you go to sea."

He supposed this was a valid point, and he had been considering retiring from such a life anyway.  But it was no longer in his hands; he had been told outright that he was not to be an officer any longer, and it annoyed him that the choice had not been his own.  Then again, he supposed his career was a little too patchy to hope for any reinstatement.  "But what shall I do now?" he wondered.

"Raise our children?  Learn to be a landed gentleman?" Stella suggested.

"Most of our new lands are in England, Lady Hargreve," he pointed out with a sly grin.  "Shall we relocate here?"

Stella made a face.  "I hope not.  It's entirely too cold."

* * *

 

And that was that.  The Norringtons were presented at court in mid-December to be formally elevated and received by the king (a portly German who spoke little English, and ignored the new Lord and Lady in favour of a truly repelling woman who was apparently his mistress).  They did go out to visit the Bradshawe estates in Hampshire, and James was surprised at the warmth of the welcome therein... until he remembered he was no longer a poor relation, the son of the Bradshawe daughter who had made so imprudent a marriage, but rather as Sir James Norrington, Lord Hargreve.

The New Year was celebrated in London with Groves, Stella's four midshipmen, the Parker family, and the Clarks and Sewalls who had come to London from Suffolk and Portsmouth, respectively, to see their sons.  And that spring, in early March, the _Endeavour_ once more set sail for the Caribbean.

Bellatrix celebrated her first birthday and took her first steps on the rocking deck of the ship, amusing James and the sailors and making Stella groan and complain that her daughter was going to be bound to the sea for the rest of her life.  James retorted only that she had been named for Calypso, and what did she expect?

And one night, their daughter's namesake visited, wearing the shape which Stella knew best.

She awoke suddenly, aware that there was a new presence in the room.  In the dim light, she could see a shadow leaning over her daughter's cradle, and she slowly extracted herself from her husband's arms, pulling on a robe and slipping out of the bunk.  "I named her for you.  Bellatrix Calypso," she murmured, moving towards the shadowy figure.

"She is a pretty thing, and will grow to be strong," the goddess replied, reaching into the cradle and taking her namesake into her dark arms.  Though she wore the skin of Tia Dalma, her voice was not the same.  Her Creole accent had vanished, and her tones were at once deep, like the currents through the open ocean, and whispery, like waves over rocks.   The goddess touched Bellatrix's forehead with her index finger, and there was a crackle of power in the air. "But she will always be one of mine, in a way you, airy one, never were."

"I don't care who she belongs to, so long as she's happy and healthy all the days in her life," Stella declared quietly.

Calypso moved across the deck towards her, flowing across the planks as though she had no feet, and handed Bellatrix back to her mother.  "You are happy, Stella," she noted.

"I am very happy," Stella agreed, aware of the deep contentment suffusing her voice.  She glanced over her shoulder at the bunk where James still slept, before looking back at Calypso and smiling as she stroked her daughter's fine hair.  "Everything I ever wanted is mine."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N part deux: So that's the last of it.  Just an epilogue to go, which will be up in tomorrow, along with an emotional last authors note at the end (the very end!  Eek!)._
> 
> _But yes, Sir Robert Walpole really was the prime minister of England, and pretty much de facto king when the actual king (George I, who was also the Elector of Hanover in modern-day Germany) was out of the country seeing to his other lands.  And George I really did have a couple of repellent mistresses, called "The Elephant" and "The Maypole" because one was short and squat and the other was tall and thin.  There's a nice little history lesson for you all.  Whee._


	47. Epilogue: Stella Vitae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our story comes to a close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the original close from October of 2010, which closed out the story on ff.net.
> 
> _A/N the last: Well, that's it!_
> 
> _After four years and three continents, the story of James and Stella has finally drawn to a close.  It's been a marvellous, wild sort of ride which was a heck of a lot of fun for me to write.  If I ever do develop Dissociative Identity Disorder, I reckon Stella will be one of my alternate personalities, because she's there, lurking in the back of my mind.   She was fabulously fun, was Stella, and I'll be sad to see her go.  Maybe she'll pop up again later, if I ever get around to writing any of the original novels I've been pondering on.  At least now I know I can indeed write a large novel-type project, imbue it with believable, funny characters and appropriate themes, and see it through to the end.  This was my first fanfic ever, and sort of a test for myself insofar as writing went.  And I think it went pretty well.  I had fun, I learned a lot, people seemed to enjoy it; I'll call it a success!_
> 
> _I want to say thank you to everyone who read and reviewed the story, and gave me the impetus to keep going, even when my muse was being uncooperative.  Without the readers, I... well, I was always going to finish this story, but it might've taken me a lot longer.  So thank you, to all the readers._
> 
> _It's kind of sad that this is over, after so long.  It'll be weird to not write any more BEA, but this is the end.  Thanks for all the love and support!  Catch you on the flip side!_

In quiet country estate on the coast of Sussex, there is a medium-sized manor house.  And in this house there is a portrait, hanging proudly above the fireplace in the main parlour.  In this portrait are five people—three women, all seated in this very same parlour, and two men, standing in the midst of the ladies.

A tall man is at the centre of the portrait, his figure trim and his posture upright and in a particular way which indicates he was once a military man.  He is wearing a coat of fine green brocade, a waistcoat embroidered with brightly-coloured tropical flowers, and a powdered wig.  There are laugh-lines cut into his handsome face, and a hint of wit lurking in the green eyes twinkling under straight brows.  This is the master of the house, and the man who commissioned the portrait: Sir James Norrington, Lord Hargreve, who was once a great naval commander in the Caribbean.  His hand rests on the shoulder of a lady, seated before him, and his pride in his family and his happiness with the same is plain, even through the medium of mere oil paints.

The lady reaches up to rest her hand on her husband's, displaying a sapphire ring on her third finger.  She is far smaller and more delicate than her husband, though she is dressed richly in a deep blue gown with a rich necklace of star-sapphires and pearls adorning her swanlike neck.  Lady Hargreve is not a beautiful woman, but there is something compelling in her sharply-featured face and in the keenness of the black eyes which stare out of the painting.  Her black hair, just touched with grey at the temples, is piled high on her head, and a simple comb of stars tooled in mother-of-pearl adorns her dark locks. Meanwhile, her expression is contented, bordering on smug; Stella Norrington smiles the smile of a cat who is sated on cream.

To the left of Lady Stella sits a lovely young woman with a mysterious little half-smile on her face.  Her kinship with James Norrington is obvious; they share the same chestnut-brown hair, green eyes, and patrician features.  However, she takes after her mother in build; Bellatrix Calypso Norrington is not a tall woman, but is instead quite diminutive in stature.  Around her neck is a string of silver bells, and in her lap is a compass.  Her dress is decorated with a variety of colourful fish and all her other jewels are pearls; apropos, for Bellatrix Norrington has an affinity with water.

_Bellatrix was seven and having her bath when her powers manifested._

_She had always been fascinated with the ocean, and spent long hours staring at it.  In her early years, she had been on many voyages across the Atlantic, as her parents had land in both Jamaica and England, and she loved to be out in the middle of the sea with water all around.  She would swear that the waves whispered to her, sharing with her the secrets of the deep; her mother agreed, and would tell her stories about the sea goddess whose name she shared.  Sometimes, father would come out on deck with them at night, and her parents would teach her all they knew about the stars and how to navigate by them._

_The Norrington family was in Sussex that summer, and Bellatrix was letting her nursemaid wash her hair when she suddenly felt rather strange.  As the water ran past her ears, she suddenly felt as though it was the only sound there was, the sound of the water, and that all water was connected for she could hear and feel the ocean as well..._

_Nanny Jacobs started screaming at the top of her lungs, rushing out of the room and crying for Lord and Lady Hargreve.  Stella hurried into the room, James on her heels, and grasped Nanny Jacobs by her shoulders.  "What on earth is the matter?" she snapped._

_"Miss Bellatrix just disappeared!" Nanny Jacobs shrieked.  "I was washin' her hair, and she just vanished under me hands!"_

_Stella smiled brightly, confusing the nurse, who had expected at least a measure of alarm. "Did she, now?"  She went over to the bathtub and peered into it.  "Bella, darling, you've given your nurse a terrible fright. Perhaps you might reconstitute yourself?"_

_Bellatrix opened her mouth to ask what 'reconstitute' meant, and then the world suddenly became much less watery.  She sat up in the tub, water streaming down her face.  She guessed what had just happened, and the brilliant smile on her mother's face confirmed it.  "Do I have my powers now?" she asked excitedly._

_"You do, my dear one," Stella confirmed.  "It seems you can become one with the water.  Given your patroness, I'm not at all surprised."_

_James patted Nanny Jacobs on the shoulder.  "Best not mention this," he advised.  "But, for your mental health, it probably won't be the last time this will happen."_

_As James had predicted, that wasn't the last time Bellatrix transmorphed into water during her baths.  She could also do so in the ocean and in the streams and ponds on the Norrington lands—and, when she was a bit older, anywhere else as well, though her parents weren't very happy when she changed inside and soaked the carpets and the bedclothes.  James was also heartily amused when Bellatrix learned to create water from the air and gather it in her cupped palms; he proclaimed it was a very useful talent for a sailor to have. Bellatrix was happy with the compliment (she confided in her father that she wished she could be a sailor, and spend all her time at sea; her father in return confided in her about a young woman he'd once known who ran off to sea and became King of the Pirates; and both of them swore not to tell Stella), even though Stella had pointed out acidly that her daughter was not a sailor._

_Whether in England or Jamaica, Bellatrix Norrington spent much of her time in the water, either drifting along in the currents as part of the ocean, or merely swimming—though swimming for Bellatrix was different than swimming for the rest of the world, for she had discovered an ability to breathe underwater even when she was still in her body.  Somehow, though, her mother always knew where she was, even when she had turned into the water and dispersed along with it._

Standing, in the portrait, behind Stella Norrington and next to James, is a tall, gangly young man of about sixteen, nearly of a height with his father, dressed in a dark blue frock-coat that matches his mother's gown and a silvery-grey waistcoat.  James Rigel Norrington is very much his mother's son.  He has her black eyes, pale skin, and stark, pointed features; only his chestnut hair, his laugh, and his height are inheritances from his father.  The younger James stares out of the painting with a sharp, piercing gaze and a thin, canny smile which anyone who had ever met Stella Bell would recognise instantly.

_In February 1527, Stella Norrington conceived another child.  Bellatrix was almost two, and the family was in Jamaica for the winter.  This pregnancy was everything the first was not: easy, peaceful, and happy.  Stella started craving blackcurrants and eels in April, which were more easily got in England, so the family sailed as usual in May.  There they remained until October, when Stella gave birth to a son._

_"We'll call him James, for you," Stella announced from her bed at Hargreve House, their seat in Sussex._

_James grinned widely, looking up from the bundle in his arms which was his newborn son.  "But Bellatrix has two names—shouldn't young James have two as well?" he suggested innocently._

_"Have you something in mind, husband?" Stella inquired, arching a tired brow._

_"Choose a star, Starling," he bid her.  "I can tell already that he's going to look as much like you as Bella does me.  He ought to have a star name as well, especially if we're to ensure that he knows he's just as much a part of the family as the girls."_

_Stella smiled as she thought about it, running through the stars she knew and the placement of the heavenly bodies as they were at the time.  She eventually chose, "Rigel.  James Rigel."_

_"I like it," James grinned.  "It's not too long."_

_Bellatrix was soon presented with her new brother, and her parents had to speak sternly to ensure she didn't treat him as one of her dolls or drag him down to the beach to go swimming.  She adored him nonetheless, especially when he was old enough to toddle around with her and play with toy boats in the duck pond._

_James Rigel didn't take the sea voyages with the same passion as his older sister when the Norrington family finally returned to the Caribbean in 1528, shortly after his first birthday.  He was terribly seasick, like his mother, whereas his father and sister were happy as clams.  "He's your son, through and through, Starling," James teased._

_It was true, James Rigel did take after his mother very much, even more so as he grew, and it became apparent he had inherited Stella's sharp wit, her cleverness, and the same keen insight into people.  Though he enjoyed the astronomy lessons with his parents and elder sister, Rigel (as the family called him) would not, as James had rather hoped, enter the navy as his father had.  He had no desire to fight pirates, nor did he have the stomach (or the legs) for long voyages._

_"That boy is a born lawyer," James eventually remarked._

_"Rigel will be whatever he wants to be," Stella replied calmly.  Then she grinned.  "Though I don't doubt you'll be right about his eventual choice of profession."_

_James Rigel never got the sense that he was excluded from his family.  He always knew that both his parents loved him, and though he occasionally teased Bellatrix in the fashion of younger brothers everywhere, it was always done with fondness.  He was his father's beloved son and heir (and a reliable fishing or riding companion whenever the women got involved in something magical), and had a special bond with his mother, whom he was so very like and who always kept in mind her vow to never make her sons feel as though they were worth anything less than her daughters._

_James Rigel Norrington, therefore, had a much happier childhood and life than either Edward Teague or Cutler Beckett._

The last lady in the picture is the youngest, appearing about thirteen.  She has a bright, open smile tinged with a bit of mischievousness lurking in the corner of her lips, and her spirit shines out from the canvas.  Electra Eleanor Norrington has her mother's black hair and her father's green eyes, her mother's chin but her father's nose, her mother's lips but her father's smile.  Her gown is a soft, vernal green which makes her eyes seem as clear as jade, and in her hand is a sketchbook and a pencil.

_When, in 1530, Stella Norrington bore another daughter, she and her husband did not agree on the naming of this one, and had a row about it that lasted for nearly two days._

_"We're not calling her Electra," James announced, for at least the hundredth time since the birth of his youngest daughter three days before.  "Why can't we just name her Eleanor?"_

_"Because that's not how it works," Stella retorted stubbornly, rocking the cradle which held the as-yet-unnamed baby.  "We can't name her Eleanor, it'll ruin the pattern."_

_"What about Anne, then?" James suggested._

_"Our other two children are named for stars; this one should be too," Stella insisted._

_"But why 'Electra'?" James asked pleadingly.  "Couldn't we call her something else?  Electra Eleanor is just... just excess!"_

_"I think it sounds lovely," Stella maintained.  She glanced over at five-year-old Bellatrix and three-year-old Rigel, who were watching their parents argue with wide eyes.  "What do you think, Bella, Rigel?  How like you Electra Eleanor for your sister's name?"_

_"I like Electra," Bellatrix said loyally. Of course, Bellatrix would agree with just about anything her mother proposed, James mused wryly._

_"'Lectra," Rigel tried.  And of course Rigel would go along with whatever Bellatrix said, James thought glumly, trying to ignore the creeping feeling that warned him he was going to lose this battle.  He didn't want to surrender just yet._

_"What about... about Elizabeth, if you want something with that 'ell' sound you favour," James asked desperately._

_Stella's face shut down, and James knew he'd made a misstep.  "I'm not naming my daughter after your first fiancée," his wife said flatly._

_He'd lost more ground.  "Well, what about—" he tried to suggest._

_"James," said Stella.  She'd set her jaw and her dark eyes were hard.  " I carried her.  I bore her.  I did, essentially, all the work.  We're naming her Electra Eleanor." Suddenly, she softened, and gave him a wicked smile.  "Besides, you threw up on my shoes."_

_James buried his face in his hands and groaned.  Would he never escape that indiscretion, which was by now six years old?  As his children giggled madly at the thought of their father doing something so silly, he lifted his eyes and scowled at his wife, knowing he'd lost and his youngest daughter was going to be saddled with a name as ridiculous and alliterative as Electra Eleanor._

_Stella was laughing with the children, and reached out to grasp his hand.  "Let her be Electra Eleanor, and I swear on my life this will be the last you ever hear of my ill-fated shoes," she promised._

_He'd lost.  "Fine," he surrendered, throwing up his hands.  He went over to the cradle, and picked up the chubby baby girl, who stared at him with sleepy eyes.  "My daughter, should you ever come to dislike a name as lengthy, mythological, and alliterative as Electra Eleanor, just remember... I had nothing to do with it.  This one is all on your mother," he said to the baby, who yawned in agreement._

_Electra Eleanor was quickly nicknamed "Ellie", and took her place as the cherished baby of the family.  Perhaps her naming had been portentous, since Stella claimed that Ellie had inherited her maternal grandmother's sweetness of temper, though Stella also claimed it was leavened with quite a bit of James' dry wit.  Ellie was clever, as all the Norrington children were (and how could they be otherwise, James always said, with such an intelligent mother?), but her passion was not for the ocean, as Bellatrix's was, nor for learning and debate, as Rigel's was, but for art.  She loved drawing and painting and needlework, loved to set down her vision of the world on paper or linen.  It was to Electra that Stella taught embroidery, for Bellatrix had neither the patience nor the inclination for it, and on many lazy afternoons the three women would sit in the parlour, Bellatrix reading aloud from a book as Electra and Stella used needle and thread to stitch spells and charms into fine linen or wool cloth._

_Electra's powers didn't manifest until she was eight. In addition to a near-eidetic memory, she also acquired the ability to create illusions, some of which seemed so real she even fooled her elder sister.  In fact, she nearly gave her father a heart attack when she was ten and she created a series of illusionary skeletons to try and frighten Rigel.  (Rigel wasn't frightened, but James certainly was, and Stella gave Electra a rather stern talking-to later about why she mustn't conjure skeletons, sea-monsters, or anything else likely to give Father or any of the servants a fright.  Eccentricity, Mother said, was an excuse that would only take them so far.)_

_Her mother, however, was never fooled by any phantom she conjured._

That is the portrait of the Norrington family, which relocated to England in 1537, so that James Rigel might have the best education in preparation for attending Oxford.  True to his father's predictions, Rigel had determined (at the age of seven), that he wanted to become a barrister and thereafter a judge.  And since most of James' business interests and lands were located in England, he discussed the matter with Stella and his children and the decision was made to spend the majority of their time in England.  The family became well-respected in the neighbourhood where they were some of the premier occupants, and visitors to the house would inevitably notice the portrait hanging on the wall—the portrait of a very happy family.

At this moment in time, there is a stack of parchment on the table—some sundry sketches done by Electra.  A viewer might recognise Theodore Groves on one page, accompanied by Anne Witcher, whom he had married; they both remained close to the Norringtons, even after their relocation to England.  James and Stella had stood godparents to Theodore and Anne's first child, a son called Andrew.  Another page has an image of Uncle Isaac, whose relationship with his brother-in-law had much improved over the years.  Part of that might have had something to do with Stella's obvious and visible happiness with her husband, her family, and her life... and it also might have had something to do with the fact that Uncle Isaac had married Aunt Margaret, who kept him on a very short leash.

There were also sketches done of several naval officers—a viewer intimate with the Norrington family might recognise Joseph Sewall, Allan Clark, Robert MacDonald, and Charles Parker.  Stella's midshipmen had remained close to the family, though they had long ceased to be midshipmen, and had their own ships and careers.

But many sketches are simply of the Norrington family, of the same people in the portrait during their everyday lives.  There are drawings of Bellatrix staring up at the night sky or out at the ocean, swimming in the pond or riding her horse or playing her harp.  There are drawings of James Rigel writing letters or reading books, peering through a telescope with his mother beside him, pointing up at some distant celestial body, or lounging on the grass with his father as they fished in the stream during a lazy summer afternoon.  There are some of Electra's self-portraits, though she seldom made the attempts; her image is the least seen among the sketches and watercolours.  But the majority of the drawings are of James and Stella talking together, laughing together, teasing each other and simply being together.  Their love for each other and their joy in their lives are apparent in every single stroke of their daughter's pen.

The bedtime story all the children most loved to hear was the story of how their parents met, married, fought sea monsters and an evil Lord, and fell in love.  Bellatrix loves to hear the story for she was actually part of it, though she was in her mother's belly at the time, and because she wants to know more about the goddess whose favour she has, who whispers to her in the movement of the waves.  Rigel loves to hear the story because it is full of pirates and sea battles and sword fights and monsters—he is a young lad, after all—and because his parents were so very brave.  But Electra loves to hear the story because she enjoys hearing about James and Stella, and how much they loved each other, like the heroes of a fairy tale—how her mother loved her father so much she stayed in the power of the wicked Lord Beckett, and how her father loved her mother so much he let the pirates get away.

James and Stella do not tell their children (at least, not until they are much older and can understand) everything about the winding road that brought them together—about their first meetings and clashes on Tortuga, about their decision to make a marriage of expedience, about the dark days when Stella loved James and James didn't love Stella.   They say nothing of the moral conundrums and the bad choices they made during that dark time; nothing about black magic and mutiny.  Instead, they quietly work to be the best people they can be, silently atoning for their perceived faults.  In time, peace comes to James and Stella Norrington, and the memory of that nadir ceases to cause them such pain.

There is one more portrait in the house, though this one is hung instead in the study, where a large, worn, massive old grimoire holds pride of place.  In this watercolour portrait, done by Electra Norrington, there are only two people: Lord and Lady Hargreve, who were James and Stella Norrington.  They are much older in this portrait than they are in the one downstairs in the parlour, or even in Electra's sketches; James' face is creased with wrinkles, and Stella's black hair has gone grey.  But the spark in Sir James' green eyes is just as potent, and the intensity of Lady Stella's dark gaze has not abated with age.

This watercolour was painted for their thirtieth wedding anniversary, and it would not be incorrect to say that they were as much in love then as they had been that day on the deck of the _Endeavour_ , though it had perhaps mellowed and sweetened and grown more tender and less passionate.  Their hands are laced together, and they turn towards the other unconsciously, shoulders touching, even as they pose for their daughter.  There is a special affection in James' smile, and a softness in Stella's face which would be totally alien to those who knew her in her youth.  This is a couple still in love, a couple entirely happy with their lives, with their children, and with each other.

James Norrington and Stella Bell did not live bitterly ever after at all, but instead managed to find that rarest of fates: a happily ever after.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so here it is, archived on the site where I do most of my fanficcing (although I spend more time reading it than writing it now). I'm over a decade older now than I was when I first started writing this... and it shows.
> 
> Which isn't to say I'm not fond of this story--I am very fond of the story and the characters, and it holds a special place in my heart as the first proper fanfic I ever wrote. But I can look at it with a more critical eye, now, and there are some things I'd change if I had more time or motivation. 
> 
> Nevertheless, I very much enjoyed writing this, and I hope people still enjoy reading it.


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